The (other) king and I

A note from the road as we travel through central Madagascar

Justin Miaraka, king of Kelilalina village, near Ranomafana National Park

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Dear NE-One

I’m writing to you from the banks of the Namorona River, just downstream from Ranomafana National Park in central Madagascar. The clouds have gathered, as they seem to do this time of day, and echoing through the valley, riding on the burble of the river, is a tangle of women’s laughter, rooster crows, the whoops of playing children and the slapping of wet laundry against broad river rocks.

It’s Saturday afternoon now as I write, and around the world right millions upon millions of people will be watching the £125-million coronation of King Charles – but in this unaffected parallel world Mark and I, this morning, met with Justin Miaraka, the king of a Tanala village, about 15 kilometres further down the valley.

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I’m documenting our Madagascar journey on Instagram stories. If you’d like to follow along, please find me here.

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Justin Miaraka was in his palace when we arrived: a simple rectangular building made from bricks and earth, and with one door (which is usually closed, but never locked) and two low, glassless windows. The floor was completely covered with neat rattan mats – carefully handmade by women in the village – and one wall held four aging posters of lemurs. From the research station at the national park, I guess, which is where one of the king’s youngest sons (the one who wears a watch, a gift from a visiting scientist) works as a research guide.

As is tradition here the Tanala king received us wearing a red jacket and a red hat shaped more like a shower cap than a beret, and he sat on the floor beside one of the windows – which the Tanala people always build into the east side of the palace, the side that signifies life. The king’s assistant, his younger brother, sat beside him. He thanked us for choosing to visit his village and for our interest in his people and customs, and as we spoke women and children came and went from the palace. Those who had shoes would leave them at the door, and they’d stoop quietly inside to sit on the floor, as we all did.  

The king’s assistant, and other members of his family

After we’d spoken for about half an hour the old king, a man with wise eyes and a gentle voice, turned his back to the room and faced the window. The women and children who sat with us fell quiet, and the king addressed his ancestors. He explained why he’d opened his palace up for us, and asked for their blessing; then he poured onto the windowsill a dash of locally-made rum. It was an invitation for the ancestors to drink, and as the king turned to face us once again we joined them, sipping from short patterned glasses the sugarcane-rum that had just gifted its sweet scent to the air.