The Mananjary | Madagascar 2025

I lost sight of Cofer as he half slid and half scampered down the near vertical cliffside. Engulfed in jungle, he called back up to me. “Its hard to tell, but I would say this way probably doesn’t go”. I pitched my kayak onto its nose, giving my shoulder a break, and surveyed the scene. Somewhere to our right was our third unrunnable cascade of the day. Owen came stumbling through the thicket, having gone to scout an alternative route. He reported, “I think the easiest thing to do is to lower boats at river level.” I swore. My poor initial assessment of the terrain 30 minutes earlier had led to us making a substantial detour-- the equivalent of walking around the block to cross the street. We crashed back down to river level and began building an anchor to lower our boats from. 

It was day 2 of the Manajary. At this point we had driven, hiked (without kayaks thanks to some kind and competent porters), drank some local rum (very strong), and had spent the morning portaging and wheelchairing as the Manajary slowly transformed from a trickle to a river big enough to paddle. 

We were lucky to receive some helpful beta from the legendary Team Scorch, which gave us an idea of where we needed to get to to successfully complete the river over 8 days. We fell short of their camp on day 2. With only a mile to go but several hundred feet of gradient to drop, we sought refuge in a cow pasture of a generous family living along the river. They took pity on us and our clear incompetence and built up a bamboo structure to dry our gear on. We shared nuts and candy with them before crawling into our beloved mega mid for an early bed time. It was a lovely night, marred only by Owen’s repeated attempts for cuddling and my pad deciding it had reached the end of its life. 

On our third day Owen’s GI system rebelled against the continuous abuse he had been subjecting it to. Whether it was the copious amount of rum he consumed with our porters or the roadside chicken he enthusiastically wolfed down, we may never know what facilitated his demise. Whatever it was, it made a very hard day on the river even harder. Day three was very similar to the one before but with an exciting added element of there now being enough water to get very seriously pinned. We continued to hit rocks and portage waterfalls, occasionally running a rapid that demonstrated the considerable potential of the Manajary. The rocks were slippery, both the kayaking and portaging were scary endeavors. We had a late lunch. Owen cried. Taylor held him and I sang a song. We all ate sardines and continued downstream. It started to rain in earnest as we found a grassy island to camp on. We set up the mega mid and climbed inside to change. The weather was indecisive, clouds mingled with sun and rain. There was a beautiful rainbow. We had dropped a substantial amount of elevation over the last couple of days and it was warm. We ate cookies and performed an original harmony titled “3 damp boys in a mid”. I experienced the kind of euphoria that can only be found at the end of a hard day with your friends. 

It took us another day to make it to the good whitewater. As we ran mile after mile of clean, continuous, high volume whitewater, the hardship and toil of the last several days began to fade away. We arrived at the massive slide that signified our camp for the night at 2pm, our shortest day of kayaking in Madagascar at only 6 hours. We bathed in the river and napped, amazed at how quickly the “hardest expedition of our lives” could transform into a tropical beach vacation. 

As we ate our oats and granola the next morning, our camp was visited by a man and his very eager and helpful son, who would prove to be an invaluable asset shortly downstream. After admiring and portaging the massive slide-- which was shockingly runnable by someone with more courage than us-- we were faced with our largest cascade of the trip. Perplexed as to how to get around it, we stood on the lip looking confused until our friend from camp ran down with two companions. They led us far around the waterfall through a dry creek bed, before helping us lower boats down a cliff. We then learned that our friend's eagerness extended to compensation for his help, as he repeatedly badgered us for money, even after we had given him some. We slid back into the river and I pondered whether my new friend liked me for my money, rather than my personality.  

Such existential questions were driven out of my mind as we got out to scout the next drop. We were, by now, in a deep gorge-- massive granite walls rose out of the river. The drops were mostly runnable and big. Several of the rapids only one of us scouted, before coming back to the group with helpful information such as “I don’t think the hole at the bottom would hold you for very long”. The gorge eased up, but rapids remained complex, necessitating a scout from both sides of the river, or from an island that was channelizing the rapid. It was a grueling puzzle that took us all day. The rapids blur together in my mind, but the overall quality was exceptional and the portaging infrequent. Finally, the gradient eased up and we ran several easy rapids. As we floated through the flatwater, the clouds rolled in and it began to rain. I smiled and looked up as the rain beat down on us. We camped on an island near a town that was bumping dance music late into the night. 

The next day it rained in earnest. We were exhausted, and despite our group's debut song focusing on the joys of being 3 damp boys in a mid,  we decided to push to the takeout a day early. Thankfully, our wonderful friend and driver Andry-- always reliable--was able to meet us. Owen, who has easily the biggest arms of the three of us, set a blistering pace that got us to the takeout ahead of schedule. This was good news, as the road was flooded and undrivable. We integrated into the busy foot traffic headed to the main highway, drawing some perplexed looks from the locals as we slipped and stumbled with our kayaks on our shoulders. Crossing the flooded bridge at the intersection with the main highway where we met Andry, I missed a step and faceplanted into the water. Splurting, I popped back up and announced “watch out, the bridge isn’t very wide”. Owen laughed. It felt like a fitting end to our journey.