Most people who know me know how much I like to walk. That’s because I’m always droning on about its many benefits. To be fair I’m in good company, with the Mayo Clinic and the French philosopher Alain Finkielkraut, who declared, “Walking is a sensitive, spiritual act.” So I was eager – after a period of enforced inactivity caused by flu, torrential rains and the Herculean effort of helping Monique get even bigger in Madagascar – to finally venture out of my gilded cage on my first walkabout.

* * *

Among the things that strike you upon arriving in Antananarivo are the high walls topped with vicious spikes or evil-looking broken glass. And as a finishing touch, coils of razor wire that would not look out of place at Gitmo.

Where we live is no exception. Driving in or out, a guardian opens the double metal doors. Like most houses in the neighborhood we have a dog on a hair-trigger. “It’s for when the guardian is asleep,” Monique explained. (She does a lot of explaining.) In any developed country the nocturnal canine chorus would be intolerable. Yet here I somehow don’t mind. Along with the birdsong, roosters, crickets, voices and other sounds of human activity, it forms part of a well-mixed soundscape that drifts in through the open windows. Very different from the traffic sounds and lawnmowers back home.

A nighttime drive always involves one or more stops at checkpoints. Armed men in full or partial military garb flag the car down and shine a flashlight in the window. Underpaid, they try to get a little something. Or they’re just bored and want to talk. With us they hit the jackpot. A celebrity behind the wheel means a good story to tell the folks at home. Normally lackadaisical, last Friday night when we were returning from Mojo they seemed unusually methodical with their flashlights. We later heard that some prisoners had escaped.

All this might become more familiar to us in the developed world as the gap between haves and have-nots widens and public services are cut.

* * *

I took Monique at her word when she described how she had tamed the local band of street criminals with some low-denomination bills and a stern warning that if they touched us or any our visitors they’d be sorry. Thus it was with only mild trepidation that, dressed in shorts and sneakers, I left our sanctuary on my own for the first time.

Avoiding the deep puddles of red-silted rainwater I walked down the lumpy cobbled alley to the main road, Rue Tsimanindry. It was filled with pedestrians, scrawny dogs and belching vehicles. I turned left, trying to stay on the narrow uneven surface that serving as a sidewalk frequently petered out. This obliged me and everyone else to step out into the stream of traffic, where the drivers’ margin of error was considerably less than what I was used to.

A line of rickety wooden stands displayed their wares. Fruits and vegetables, both familiar and strange. A dozen baskets, each holding a different kind of rice. Socks. Spicy fritters scooped from bubbling oil. Telephone credit. Unidentifiable mechanical parts. Equally unidentifiable animal parts.

After a few minutes of weaving in and out and dodging motorcycles, taxis and minibuses, on the right I spotted Rue Kotavy running past some rice paddies. I had already identified this on the map as a possible walking route. In fact, it was perfect: well paved and quiet with only the occasional vehicle. A smattering of pedestrians for company. Shady with colorfully flowering plants and trees.

The road curved around a hill above a lake, which I sometimes spied. On both sides of the street I caught tantalizing glimpses of lush gardens hidden behind high walls. Signs announcing Villa Such-and-Such were accompanied by others warning of mean dogs. Some of the huge metal doors were manned by uniformed security personnel armed with walkie-talkies. It was clear that the pedestrians I saw were just passing through. The real residents of this lakefront property were the very rich.

Over the next few days I explored some side streets running steeply up the hill. After short, heart-pounding climbs I was rewarded by expansive views of the many hills and valleys across which Antanananrivo sprawls.

* * *

Yesterday, though, I was a little too sure of myself. For some time I’d been attracted by a dirt path leading down from the road to a narrow-gauge railroad track next to the lake. Monique claims it sometimes carries a train to the eastern port city of Tamatave. But it looked to me like the track served exclusively as a pedestrian walkway. Joining the flow of people I headed in the direction I thought would take me back to the start of my route. I soon realized that the track was curving around the other side of the lake. When it passed under a viaduct I climbed up to the road, figuring that if I kept the lake on my right I would circumnavigate it back to my starting place.

Before long I was lost. To make matters worse, the early morning sun was mounting higher in the sky. Without headgear or sunscreen I would soon be toast. I had my phone. But Monique was on the other side of the city doing a radio interview with her phone probably turned off. Even if I could reach her, I wouldn’t be able to tell her where to find me. I saw an encouraging sign pointing to the World Food Program office. I knew our nephew Yaya worked there. But I also knew he’d left on a two-week road trip that very morning.

Backtracking a ways I came to a road that, while unfamiliar, looked like it might head in the right direction. With no sidewalk to speak of the speeding cars were particularly dangerous. One lightly clipped me with its mirror. Why hadn’t I paid more attention during the drives back from town? At my most despondent, I suddenly saw a landmark: the Clinique St-Paul. Soon afterwards I spied the familiar-looking sign touting Arnaud’s pizza, cooked over a wood fire. When the friendly blue-and-green Belle Vue Hotel sign on the corner of our lane came into view, I knew I was home free. 

I bet Finkielkraut never has to contend with this on his strolls down the Champs-Élysées.