Ft. Dauphin is one of the few places in Madagascar more commonly known by its French name than its Malagasy name (Tolagnaro). It is the most beautiful place I have ever seen, yet living there is prohibitively difficult. Less than 500 miles from Tana, to drive through the winding mountain roads from one place to the other could take anywhere from two to four days. I was told that the average vehicle speed outside of the capital is 30 km/hr (about 18 mph).

Because the roads are so difficult, Air Madagascar does a healthy business. When I’d flown from Paris to Antanarivo ten days earlier, I’d crossed the equator for the first time. When I flew to Ft. Dauphin, I went even further south, just below the Tropic of Capricorn. Below our 737, the island’s interior looked like a giant green brain, wrinkled and creviced, strange and beautiful. We had a brief layover in Toliar, on the west coast, which looked a little like Mali with grass. From there it was a short hop to the southeast tip of the island. We descended; on one side were sharp green mountains, on the other side was nothing but the Indian Ocean. In the middle, somewhere, where I couldn’t see it, was the Tolagnaro Airport landing strip.

Our taxi worked its way through the center of the little town, then out sandy roads to our hotel, the Petit Bonheur: five two-story bungalows spelling H-O-T-E-L. I stayed in the L. It was most convenient to the lobby and restaurant, but a partially obstructed view.

While we checked in, we watched the foot traffic on the beach road. A woman flanked by two small daughters carried a large tuna on her head. She had it strapped to a board to keep it from flopping. She probably sold it for the equivalent of a U.S. dollar or two, while the same fish in Tana cost three dollars a kilo.

That is the strange economics of Ft. Dauphin: What much of the world thinks of as luxury items, saltwater fish and crabs and lobsters, are cheap and easy to come by. What much of the world doesn’t give a second thought, pens and paper and clothes, are very hard to come by, and prohibitively expensive for most Malagasy in Ft. Dauphin.

We saw more evidence of these economics on the beach. The edges of the peninsula on which Ft. Dauphin lies are scalloped with coves. (One of the points between two coves is the site of the old fort, highly strategic as it is surrounded by water on three sides. The base is still used by the military today, but a herd of goats clambers over the old cannons.) One cove is filled with natural canals; another is filled with shipwrecks -- almost all were deliberately sunk for insurance money; another was the view that greeted me each morning from the balcony of my hotel room; another was the beautiful beach down the road from our hotel.

The only drawback to the beach was the aggressive women selling trinkets to vaza: shells, necklaces, cheap silver bracelets. Although in some ways they have it better than the poor people living in Tana, daily necessities for themselves and their children are very expensive, and they are willing to trade for items instead of cash. Partly out of restlessness, and partly to avoid the pushy local women, I explored the tidal pools that formed in the rock along the edge of the cove. They were full of snails, thousands and thousands of them, and little fish, and sea slugs the size of grapefruit. In the shade of the cliff, young self-styled Rastafarian men played soccer.

At dusk we climbed up the hill to the open-air restaurant at the top, tried some local rum, and ate fresh tuna sandwiches. My friends told me a story of a woman who had lived in Ft. Dauphin as a Peace Corps volunteer. A French man living nearby contracted malaria. He refused treatment, but when he lost consciousness he was taken to the hospital, where it was too late to save him, and he died. His Malagasy neighbors, upset and uncertain what to do, called this woman to pick up his body and bring it back, so she did, carrying the dead body of a stubborn stranger in her truck.

Did the French man want to die, or not care if he did, or did he really think he’d tough it out? Ft. Dauphin seems so far away from the rest of the world, I can see how it would be a haven for unusual people like that, like the middle-aged white man we saw walking through town munching on a baguette. Someone in our car had met him and learned he was looking for a thirteen-year-old wife. A local had asked him why he didn’t find a thirteen-year-old wife in his own country. He replied that it would be “too hard.”

See pictures from my trip to Ft. Dauphin, Madagascar.

See pictures from a boat trip and a hike near Ft. Dauphin.