Along with shade, there is another supreme value in southern Madagascar: water.
More precious than gold, it governs actions and habits.
In Tsihombe, in the heart of the semi-arid Androy region, I met women, men, and children for whom every drop counts. The pipes that are supposed to bring fresh water to the city struggle to fulfill their mission. So, people adapt. They buy a few cans transported by cart. Or, every morning, they walk to Manambovo. It is there, in the sandy riverbed, that we search for the essentials.
We dig, we make holes, sometimes deep, sometimes barely sketched out. Ephemeral basins, filled with water that we drink, wash ourselves in, clean our clothes, and cook our food. Water that makes everything possible. Life is organized around it. Women chat, watching over their holes as one watches over a fire. They laugh, sing, and share—but not just any old way. It is strictly forbidden to contaminate the water: urine and feces are taboo, prohibited. Here, water is respected.
“Every day, we dig a new hole,” a man tells me. “So that the water is a little less dirty.” This daily labor, humble and vital, digs much more than the earth: it draws black circles, imprints of humanity on the belly of the ground.
These holes are open bellies, navels of survival. They speak of struggle, patience, and the dignity of those who stand tall, no matter the cost, in a thirsty country.
july 2025 Christian Barbé