Fianarantsoa
Crossing The Big Island
After some imprecise approaches of the imagination, concerning to the land that produces gray wine, we have arrived at Fianarantsoa after having to cross the universe of the red and the tiles of the Highlands. At the afternoon cloudy swings. Sensation of having poured with rain a moment ago; it is now when a lot of people show up, reappear, retake that moment that the generous rain has interrupted. The steep streets make the last mud currents to slide. On the heights the washed white of minarets of the Great Mosque competing with the numerous churches and the unpolluted whiteness of an enormous statue, reflection of the catholic idolatry.
It is a city where also an exotic spectacle…, carried out by the whites, begins: the trip in train that links up Fianarantsoa with the east coast. Necessarily the coach with the reserved seats; there the first will enjoy the privilege to sit down on the left side seats that supposedly offer the best views. For the others, the natives, a long wait from the dusk of the day before and carriages without more concessions that the primacy of conquest. The spectacle begins before the departure takes place. Goings and comings, now me, and now you will take the photo of me, there or here. The next act; the whites stand up along the windows on the left side of the coach and re-digest the images that come to them through the screens of their cameras. The railroad between Fianarantsoa and Manakara passes through numerous tunnels and then the whites become unhappy, some sit down and, when make out the end of the darknes, stand up again, like a tame herd under the unforgivable whip. And hours and hours this way. Appearing like locust to gulp everything what is seizeable when the train stops. And all the stops this way.
