During their journey they travelled through areas seldom visited by foreigners and several places not even included in the numerous guidebooks they had read beforehand. In addition to compiling a video diary, Alan kept a written record of their adventures, from which he has written this report. Although born in Tanzania, Alan had not returned to the continent since his early childhood. This was Lex's first foray into Africa.

The semi-desert of southern Madagascar is not what could be described as 'tourist circuit' territory. When the folk in the towns and villages which are strung out on the one major route through the area - a road of sand, dust and broken rock - see vazahas (foreigners), they see them fly past in big 4x4s, kicking up a sandstorm in their wake.

So imagine the reaction when two vazahas on mountain bikes turned up in their village and not only did they stop for drinks, it became apparent they were staying for the night!

It never ceased to amaze me how quickly word spreads in such a situation. Within minutes of our arrival an ersatz welcoming committee of the village's entire child population would assemble, the smaller and shyer hiding behind and clinging to the legs of the bigger and bolder. Trying to remain aloof, but by no means less intrigued, the adult population would slowly bring up the rear until critical mass was achieved, the whole village joining in the new spectator sport of vazaha watching.

After feeding our monstrous thirst for fizzy drinks, the assembly would become mobile and vocal at our enquiries of potential lodgings for the night, following in our wake like the trail of a particularly dusty pair of comets. The village children would remain congregated at the room where more often than not a bed would hastily be assembled for us, laughing and playing or just staring in mute amazement.

Vazahas have something of a bad press in this area; long believed to steal the hearts of children, I suspect the vazaha performs the same function to the Malagasy as the bogeyman does to naughty British children, so many of the youngsters viewed us with some trepidation, rarely venturing far from the safety of an older brother or sister.

Following the evening's inevitable meal of chicken and rice, an evening stroll would rapidly descend into an evening scrum. Refreshed and recovered, being the centre of attention was more of a pleasure as the children would scream with laughter at my attempts at speaking and our turning to chase the trail behind us like Mr Wolf.

Later, under the vast and star-filled southern sky, we would talk of life in our country, feeding the intense curiosity of the older villagers. Contemplating the following days ride, we always knew that tomorrow would bring the same amazed excitement as the cycling vazaha circus rolled into town.

Hot, thirsty and covered in sweat and dust at the end of a long ride, it has to be said it was not always easy to adapt to our new-found status as star attraction. But looking back now it is that crowd-of-a-thousand-eyes that remains as my enduring image of this beautiful and friendly island.

Many people, not least the Malagasy themselves, wondered why we would choose to cycle rather than cruise through in the comfort of an air-conditioned 4x4. I wouldn't have changed places for all the fizzy drink in the world.

Published in Travel Africa Edition Seven: Spring 1999

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