In the southeast of the Madagascar, in Anosy region, Azafady is based in the isolated district of Tolagnaro, more commonly known as Fort Dauphin. The people of Anosy are one of the poorest ethnic groups in the country. The region’s population suffers one of the lowest per capita incomes and highest rates of disease, infant mortality and illiteracy. Azafady have carried out a wide range of community projects in the region.

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© Eleonore de Bonneval

Friday Saturday Sunday involved little sleep, having returned to the hotel post sunrise Saturday just in time for two days in transit. Marius our brilliant bodyguard, driver, guide and translator took us to the airport Saturday mid morning. At the airport we tried to spend 100€ on ylang ylang and vanilla products but our British bank cards were declined. On the plane we met a nice British guy. At Nairobi airport we watched a British rugby team play and win. Then we were in Britain.

Yesterday I found 2,000 ariary in my pocket, the closed currency note featuring only trees and fields, a surprise memento of the magic of Madagascar. I’m impatient for the opportunity to spend it.

When fear and loathing came to a head in Antananarivo in early 2009 over a hundred people were killed, riots and lootings rife. On Thursday there was a second eruption. At least three people were killed in a clash between military factions and a curfew descended on the city.

We were on our way to interview a prominent politician on Thursday morning when we heard through radio and rumour that a political protest had mounted. ‘Let’s hope you don’t get interrupted’ our driver said.

Inside his office we took our seats and two of his (many) secretaries took theirs unnervingly closely behind us, to record the interview with a tape player. I noticed that the improbably numerous doors leading from the room were padded. A mobile rang incessantly in the next room. We asked for it to be silenced which seemed to cause angst. I thought one person’s hand was shaking. As the interview ran the tension in the room eased until we started to wrap up. A stream of people filed in, speaking rapid Malagasy. We went to leave in the gaggle, unsure what had been said, what had happened, and the politician pulled Eleonore an I back, closing the door.

© Eleonore de Bonneval

‘You are in danger. There are extremists out there who want to kill vazahas (foreigners)’.

The protests had become violent. The politician offered to safehouse us. Eleonore and I agreed in a glance that being with him was more dangerous than not being so. We declined further assistance and arranged a lift with a politically neutral friend.

For the rest of the day paranoia set in. We spent the afternoon holed up in our hotel room doing photoshoots with Eleonore’s camera whilst my dictaphone sat recording what we thought were gunshots from the windowsill.

Later in the hotel restaurant a man who ordered nothing seemed to be there for the soul purpose of observing us. In a move David Lynch could have directed he at one point stood with his back to a pillar, like a child hiding behind a tree, and very slowly edged his head around it until his face was turned fully towards us, registering us with narrowed eyes, then very slowly edged it back in reverse. I got up and ordered water to introduce myself/regain sanity.

© Eleonore de Bonneval

Taxis are a big part of Tana’s identity. They are little cream coloured rounded Renaults. They are mostly falling apart, back doors only operable with the experienced flick of the driver’s hand.

Today, by taxi, we needed to go to a bank then to the stadium. We got a tour around the outside of the stadium then taken to a Bank of Africa which had a queue of about 15 people. We asked for another bank and were dropped at the commerce centre, inside which the lone ATM wasn’t working. We came out of the commerce centre to find the taxi had gone. In our confusion we got into an identical taxi then got out again. Our original taxi driver emerged from traffic on foot and walked us ten minutes to where he’d parked. Back in the taxi we asked for another bank and he dropped us at another Bank of Africa with a queue of about 15 people. We walked to the nearby BNP and withdrew money then walked back to find the taxi had gone. Our original taxi driver emerged from traffic on foot and walked us ten minutes to where he’d parked…

© Eleonore de Bonneval

What street sellers sell;

Tanambao market, Tolagnaro: Assorted beans, green oranges, fried peanuts, coconuts, little bags of coal, handmade baskets, bread batons, reed roll mats, rice, squawking chickens in stick cages. Men with plates of zebu meat aloft like waiters.

Traffic jam, Lower Tana: Steering wheel covers, coat hangers, hosepipes, pliers, screwdrivers, sunglasses, a set of kitchen knives, kites, microphones, monopoly. There is a man who sits on a roundabout by lake Anosy selling highchairs.

© Eleonore de Bonneval

Staying in the art installment that is salle quinze in hotel Sakamanga. It is a Tim Burtonesque wonderland full of secret places. The telly is inside a suitcase you have to prop open with a stick.

© Eleonore de Bonneval

Madagascar’s government has today declared that tomorrow is a national bank holiday.

For our Fort Dauphin to Antananarivo flight transfer Eleonore’s passport doesn’t get checked. Mine does, twice.

© Eleonore de Bonneval

Slight change of setting and circumstance. Private beach in Sainte Luce, sunbathing. On a rock in the sea, surrounded by rain forest, no one in sight.