Maeva* is an intern at ADES and is currently writing her Master's thesis in Madagascar. She gives us an insight into her experiences.

When we got up at 5.30 a.m. on Thursday 25 April, the infantry opposite the hotel had not yet sounded the reveille trumpet. I hadn't yet realised what an incredible journey lay ahead of me. I might have guessed it when the purple-pink dawn turned into a fiery red sunrise, but all I knew was that it was far too early in the morning and that we were at the start of a 13-hour drive. For the first two hours I sat in the back of the car with Luc, but by then I had conquered the passenger seat, and that didn't change for the rest of the journey (and no, Luc didn't want to switch, I actually asked him).

I won't really be able to put into words how the landscape changes, what you observe, see, how you perceive the changes: the people, the smells, the rocking of the car on the dusty dirt road, the bright red earth that makes the lush green of the plants and rice fields pulsate, the dry wind that rushes through the leaves every now and then, the purple water lilies that bloom on the freshly sown rice fields, the rock formations that suddenly rise metres into the sky and invite you to climb, or the individual trees that stand long and lonely on huge plains and give you an idea of how large and lush the forest here must once have been before everything was cleared and burnt down.

We are travelling for a long time and all I can do the whole time is look out. I've never enjoyed such a long car journey so much and just looked out for so long and with such excitement. I never get bored and I watch the passing landscape for hours. Sometimes I listen to some music (the album "Tiako" by Jaojoby), but mostly I just marvel. At the beginning, it is hilly and barren for a long time, with individual palm trees and bushes. In the mornings, we encounter many cyclists, some of whom are carrying huge loads of firewood, coal or grass. Just when you think we are really remote, that there is nothing here, the next village appears around the corner. And it really does appear out of nowhere, within seconds. Nothing announces it: Stones, bushes, dust, bam - suddenly there are straw houses, clay houses, graves, a market, a school, etc.

This is something that really struck me: if I was suddenly dropped off somewhere on a motorway in Switzerland, I would probably have to walk for quite a while before I met anyone. Here, along the Route Nationale 7, you're guaranteed to meet someone after ten minutes at the latest. No matter how far we drive, there is always someone on the road somewhere, no matter how remote it looks. If you got lost here, you wouldn't be alone for long. I find that somehow wonderful. And it also leads to some very funny scenes. At one point we are travelling along a very flat, remote, dry and hot plain. And a woman is sitting under one of the few shady trees talking on the phone. Just like that. In the middle of nowhere.

We drove for miles over flatland, past yellow steppes, and the mountains look as if they've all been cut off flat at the top with a knife. Not a tree line, a mountain line. At one point, I have the feeling that we're travelling along just such a mountain boundary and see a dry, reddish, treeless landscape right up to the horizon. We also drive through the Sapphire Valley, known for its mines where the coveted precious stones are extracted, and cross bridges where people are digging for gold in the riverbeds. And suddenly the landscape changes again and we are surrounded by rice fields, the road is lined with trees, or we come across a "herd" of baobabs. The building material of the houses also changes. In the beginning, it was mostly sheet metal, wood or long stalks or palm leaves, then from time to time there were houses made of concrete. More and more often, clay was added or back to palm huts. Some of these remind me of the story of the wolf and the three little pigs, where I also think one huff and puff would be enough, but most of them seem to have been around for a few years. What you never see, however, are glass panes. There are shutters, curtains, cloths that serve as doors, but not a single glass window. The most beautiful and usually most elaborately decorated buildings are, without exception, either the churches or the tombs. Even in a tiny village, where all the huts are made of straw or mud, there is a large, red-painted concrete church. This is a good illustration of how in many places in Madagascar the dead sometimes still have more power and rule over the living.

The animals that have inspired me the most since my arrival are the chickens here. In comparison, our chickens can pack their bags. The ones here are far superior to them in terms of evolution! The local ones are long-legged chickens that look as if they are relay runners. With long, sharp claws that are usually only filed in nail salons - the only thing missing is the colour. They are most often seen making daring sprints across the main street, which I suspect has contributed to their physical development. For me, they are closer in family to ostriches than to our chickens. However, I also fear that the chickens, which have not adapted to this sport, probably met their Darwinian end earlier.

But what I love most is watching the people. Children bathing in the river, women washing or tilling a field, or walking along a road that leads to the horizon, carrying huge loads freehand on their heads. I always feel like stopping, getting out of the car and following them, standing in a rice field, throwing rice into the air and catching it again, chatting with them, sitting on a cart pulled by zebus or following a child into his kitchen where it smells of food. I realise that these are all very romantic and short-lived ideas, but I would so, so have liked to have had more time to immerse myself in these lives and be a part of them. But our car drives on and the moment passes.

As dusk falls and night falls, it gets really dark. There are hardly any lights, let alone street lamps. It's about 6 or 7 pm and we're still travelling. We meet fewer and fewer people on the road, and our driver drives much more carefully, because you can hardly see the people who are just coming home from the fields or are still travelling. Every now and then a firelight flashes out from one of the house entrances, or dim, pale neon light, generated by solar cells, illuminates a terrace or a kitchen. The day is coming to an end and you can tell. Yet somehow there is still life in the air. People are calling for dinner, you can hear the clinking of crockery and music is still coming from somewhere. But I suspect that everything will soon be heading for bed, as the day starts again with the first light. In Toliara, there was still a lot going on on the streets in the evening, even when it was dark. But out here, things are becoming increasingly quiet.

There are various reasons why you shouldn't drive here at night. One of which we are now encountering more and more. Most of the taxi-brousse (small minivans, often completely overloaded, are the most frequently used means of transport between towns) have no lights. Even the large, colourful camions, apart from a few over-lit exceptions (one came towards us with lights in the shape of Darth Vader's mask), usually have a broken or damaged headlight that faintly reveals its presence. But for many, nothing is lost; where there's a will, there's obviously a way. Because instead of repairing the headlights, some very clever inventors have attached something like bicycle lights to the front of the car. This means that they can't actually see or illuminate anything themselves, but those driving towards them can now see red and green flashing Christmas tree lights slowly moving across the potholed road. Fortunately, it doesn't take much longer and eventually we wind our way through the hilly roads of Fianarantsoa before arriving at the hotel.

* Name changed