Khati & "le tourisme sexe". On arrival in Madagascar you realise it’s an island of extremes. About as far from the West Midlands perhaps as you can go in culture, climate and landscape. The people are beautiful – very dark skinned with a slight oriental look and beaming with smiles and laughter. The currency is in thousands but worth hardly anything. 4000 Ariary to the pound. We watch the people eat fresh fruit, rice and newly caught fish and think how healthy they are. Mangos are scattered on the road ready to eat and chickens, goats, Zebu (a funny looking cow with a hump) and ducks roam everywhere with their young behind them – the true meaning of free range.
 | | Khati chewing is everywhere |
Then we notice men and women with what look like golf balls in their mouths – we ask a taxi driver what they’re eating. "Khati" he says: a light green, harmless looking leaf that they chew. It has the same effect as an amphetamine and it’s everywhere. One taxi driver we have picks leave of a stalk from a plastic bag as he drives us around. The women seem liberated and strong with attitude – but then we keep seeing older white men walking and dining with young local girls. "‘Why is that?" I ask another taxi driver. "‘C’est le tourisme sexe, " he shrugs. After a day in the city, it’s time to make our way to the tiny village where the radio station’s being built. We have no idea where it is – we have a name (that no-one’s heard of – perhaps we’re pronouncing it wrong) but in the morning we know we’ll find it. That’s what journalists do after all isn’t it – we’ll rely on our good luck. Black teeth, no shoes and potholes It’s taken three days to get to Ansaravibe – that’s where we’re building the radio station. Two plane journeys, about five taxi rides in old French Peugeot 205s and a three hour trip in a ‘Taxibrousse’ – a minibus bursting with people – all keen to rise along side the ‘Vzar’ – that’s the Malagassy word for white foreigner.
 | | Children in Ansaravibe |
A trip in a taxibrousse is not for the faint hearted. Before you get on, ten strong arms reach for your rucksack, you blink and your bag’s been strapped in on top of the truck and you’re away. You soon make friends with the people . They speak a mixture of Malagassy and French. Smiling is the key. In Madagascar there are no proper roads – only potholed tracks which made the 150 kilometre journey last a while. As for the music, the drivers play a mixture of French ballads (all seemingly sung by Celine Dion) and traditional music. It’s so loud, you can feel the vibrations through the seats and making conversation in a different language is definitely a challenge. When we finally arrive, our heads are buzzing and the chilled tranquillity of the village is welcome relief. By pure good luck, the taxi pulled up by a half built windowless building. A white man peered out.
 | | Outside the radio station |
"Welcome to our radio station," he said. He was surrounded by local kids. One of them, a very cute boy who was about two, smiled at me. His teeth were like two black pebbles in his mouth. Many of them weren’t wearing shoes. The village is tiny. Some buildings are made of bricks which surprises us and others small wooden huts with branches weaved together for the roofs. Our first workshop Today we did our first workshop with the staff who are going to work on the community radio station. There were about eight boys and girls and we sat in a tiny hut on the floors. We couldn’t sit in the three room radio station as the workmen are still there.
 | | Teacher Eve hits Ansaravibe |
We taught them interview skills and did story-finding exercises. One of the boys, Wenselas, is 14. He’s the star of the class by far and by lunch time when I was flagging because of the heat he was still bursting with enthusiasm. Like a sponge he was ready to soak up everything I knew about radio. Speaking to him through a translator I found out he was building his family a house using money he’d made from making jewellery out of coconuts and selling them to tourists in a nearby guesthouse. I thought about my 14 year old nephew in Wolverhampton and the two different worlds. As part of the workshop we sent the trainee journalists out to find a story in the village and present it to us. They stood in pairs on the steps of their radio station-to-be and did their reports as the sun beat down. About a minute after they started we were surrounded by around 30 small kids standing on the dusty road staring on in awe. There’s not much for entertainment here.
 | | Inside the radio station |
I was amazed by the stories they’d come back with. Anika’s report was about a pregnant woman who was in the local hospital (a small room in a hut with a doctor) who was being treated badly. Talent is hidden here in this remote African village. Tomorrow I’m going into the school to talk to 50 kids about the benefits of a radio station. None of them speaks French or English. A new beginning Standing at the front of a class of 50 kids, only half wearing shoes, all with a raggedy blue shirt over their clothes as a sort of uniform, all silent and expectant and none speaking English – today it was my job to tell them about the possibilities of their radio station. The usual translator was busy so after scouring the village for someone who spoke French we persuaded a village elder to help us. I brought a microphone and mini disc player and played out sounds I’d recorded around the village.
 | | Putting up the aerial |
They then got into groups to prepare and perform a radio jingle for the station. The translator at first wouldn’t explain what I had asked them to do to them because he said they’d never be able to do it. It was frustrating and eventually he told them. Their songs were brilliant – in verses and focused on how radio meant a new beginning for Ansaravibe. On our half hour walk back to our guest house, one of the school girls guided is through the woods. Suddenly there was a crack of thunder (rainy season is just starting) and the rain started pouring down. The track quickly washed away and there was nowhere to shelter. Out of nowhere a young boy appeared with a huge umbrella and slip-slided all the way back with us. We were up to our ankles in water but our clothes were dry. We got back at 6 – it was dark. We had dinner and now we’re going straight to bed – exhausted. Hilarious It’s my last day in Madagascar. This morning we walked out to Marrowmaina – a small village nearby – to introduce the idea of a community radio station to the locals. They’d heard we were coming and about 30 people were sitting under a tree waiting for us.
 | | No paparazzi, thanks! |
We told them having a radio could change their lives. Without transport, information now could travel faster and communication would be improved. They told us some local stories and we recorded them and played them back to them. One woman told me I reminded her of a doll a white person had given her which, when she pulled it’s string, said ‘Good morning.’ Everyone thought it was hilarious. | 
