Antananarivo, Madagascar – Few cities in Africa present as dramatic a skyline as Madagascar’s capital. Built across a succession of steep hills and narrow valleys, its red‑brick palaces, crowded stairways, and bustling markets form an urban landscape as charismatic as it is chaotic. For decades, navigating this city of three and a half million people has meant hours lost in gridlocked streets, breathing fumes from ageing buses and rattling taxis. In response, Madagascar embarked on one of the continent’s boldest infrastructure experiments: an urban cable car designed to float above the congestion and connect neighbourhoods separated by geography and time. Yet today, the cabins sit in storage, the stations are guarded but empty, and the future of the €150‑million project hangs in political and financial limbo. This is the story of the Antananarivo Cable Car – a system that promised to transform urban mobility, became a symbol of a controversial presidency, and now waits to see whether it will ever carry passengers again.
A City Strangled by Its Own Geography
To understand why a cable car was ever considered for Madagascar, one must first grasp Antananarivo’s peculiar relationship with its terrain. Founded in the 17th century as a royal citadel atop the highest hill, the city expanded organically along ridges and into valleys filled with rice paddies. Its street pattern was never meant for motor vehicles. Today, more than three million people crowd into the metropolitan area, and the road network – a tangle of two‑lane avenues, unpaved alleys, and steep staircases – struggles to cope.
During morning and evening rush hours, the city’s main arteries turn into near‑stationary rivers of vehicles. Taxi‑be minibuses, aging Renaults and Peugeots, motorcycles, and private SUVs jostle for space. According to local transport studies, the average commute can stretch beyond an hour for distances that would take 20 minutes on a free‑flowing road. The economic drain is substantial: lost productivity, wasted fuel, and health costs from worsening air quality. Expanding the road network is prohibitively expensive and socially disruptive because it would require demolishing tightly packed hillside communities and filling in cultivated valleys. A different solution was needed, one that would work with the topography rather than against it.
The Vision: Taking Public Transport to the Sky
The idea of a téléphérique urbain gained traction in the late 2010s under President Andry Rajoelina. Fresh from promising to accelerate Madagascar’s development, his administration looked for highly visible, modernising projects. Cable cars were an appealing choice. Globally, cities like Medellín (Colombia), La Paz (Bolivia), and Constantine (Algeria) had proved that aerial ropeways could effectively serve dense, hilly urban areas at a fraction of the cost and land‑acquisition burden of metro systems. Antananarivo, with its dramatic relief, seemed tailor‑made for such technology.
In 2020, the Malagasy government awarded a turnkey contract to a French consortium comprising POMA, a world leader in cable transport systems, and Colas, a major civil engineering and infrastructure group. The project was financed largely through loans from the French Treasury and commercial banks, backed by France’s export credit agency. The stated ambition was audacious: an 8.7‑kilometre line with seven stations cutting diagonally across the capital, capable of carrying 40,000 passengers a day in modern, solar‑assisted cabins.
Technical Marvel: How the System Was Designed
From an engineering perspective, the Antananarivo Cable Car (often referred to as the “Orange Line” after Rajoelina’s political colour) was a state‑of‑the‑art detachable gondola system. Its 220 twelve‑seater cabins were to travel at 5.5 metres per second (roughly 20 km/h), suspended from a continuously moving steel cable. Because the cabins detach from the main line in stations, passengers would board and alight at ground level, with fully automatic doors ensuring safety. The system was designed to offer:
High frequency: Cabins would depart every few seconds, eliminating the need for timetables.
Accessibility: Wheelchair‑friendly cabins and stations, a rarity in Malagasy public transport.
Natural ventilation and photovoltaic panels on cabin roofs to power onboard lighting and communication systems, reducing the electrical load on the grid.
Panoramic windows offering sweeping views over Lake Anosy, the historic Upper Town, and the rice fields beyond.
The route connected Anosy, near the iconic lake and the city’s administrative heart, with Ambatobe, a rapidly growing residential and commercial suburb to the northeast. Intermediate stations at Soarano, Ankorondrano, and other key nodes promised to interlink with bus routes, markets, and employment centres. A future second line to the Ankatso university campus was also included in the original contract, though it was never started.
Proponents highlighted multiple benefits. Environmentally, electric cable cars would produce zero local emissions and far less noise than diesel buses, contributing to better air quality in a city that the World Health Organization has flagged for pollution. Economically, faster, more reliable commutes would boost workforce participation and open up new commercial opportunities around stations. Socially, the system would bridge the gap between hilltop residential areas and valley‑floor job centres, cutting travel times for lower‑income residents. For tourists, a ride would offer an unmatched vantage point over one of Africa’s most photogenic capitals.
A Troubled Birth: Construction and Delays
Construction began in earnest in March 2023, later than initially planned. Workers erected concrete tower foundations on precarious hillsides, strung kilometres of steel cable, and assembled sleek station buildings with the inscription “Rapidité, sécurité, mobilité” – speed, safety, mobility. But the project soon encountered the realities of building in a densely populated, economically fragile city.
The two‑year completion target slipped. By the time the line was finally inaugurated in August 2025, the overall cost had climbed to over €111 million, well beyond the initial estimate of €92 million. The increase was attributed to currency fluctuations, unexpected ground conditions, and the need to adapt infrastructure to narrow, congested urban sites. France’s official financial backing nevertheless remained solid, with ministers touting the cable car as a “showcase of French know‑how” and a model for sustainable urban mobility in Africa.
A Short‑Lived Service and Unraveling Support
For a few weeks in late 2025, passengers in Antananarivo did actually ride the orange cabins. However, the service was sporadic at best. Instead of a seamless connection to the public electricity grid, the cable car relied on diesel generators intended only for testing. The national utility, Jirama, had not completed a permanent high‑voltage connection. Power cuts interrupted operations; the line ran for just a few hours a day, if at all.
Equally problematic was the fare. At around €1 per trip, the cable car was vastly more expensive than a ride on a taxi‑be, which cost the equivalent of 10–15 euro cents. For a large portion of Antananarivo’s population – many of whom earn less than €2 a day – the cable car was an unaffordable luxury. The anticipated flood of 40,000 daily passengers never materialised. Ridership was negligible, and the mood among the public soured.
The political ground shifted suddenly in September 2025. Weeks of youth‑led protests against the Rajoelina government culminated in military intervention and the president’s departure. The newly installed transitional authorities, led by Colonel Michaël Randrianirina, froze or reversed many emblematic projects of the previous era. The cable car, indelibly associated with Rajoelina’s “Orange” brand, became a political liability. Its unfinished stations were tagged with protest graffiti, some equipment was vandalised, and within days the cabins were taken down and stored. The line has not operated since 25 September 2025.
The Infrastructure in Limbo
Today, a visitor to the Soarano station in central Antananarivo would find an eerie scene. The automatic gates are locked, weeds push through the gravel, and street vendors have set up stalls unconcernedly against the station walls. The guard has little to do. The bright promise of “speed, safety, mobility” still blinks from a digital display, but it feels like a message from another era.
Elsewhere along the 8.7‑kilometre route, the seven stations have been secured to prevent further vandalism. The towers and cables remain in place, but the 220 cabins are mothballed in a depot. According to Richard Ferrazi, director of Colas in Madagascar, the damage from the protests was relatively limited, and the infrastructure can be rehabilitated without “colossal” extra costs. A technical audit commissioned by the new government confirmed this assessment but pointed out that the real obstacles lie elsewhere.
The foremost problem remains electricity. Without a stable grid connection, the cable car cannot run reliably. Jirama, chronically under‑resourced and itself in need of restructuring, has still not provided a timeline for hooking up the stations. Secondly, no operating company with trained staff has been formally appointed to manage and maintain the system. The short test phase exposed the gap between construction and sustainable operation.
The Debt Question and Financial Fallout
Beyond the technical and operational hurdles, the cable car has become a financial albatross. The loans backing the project – provided by the French Treasury and Société Générale, with repayment schedules stretching to 2034 – total approximately €150 million when interest and associated costs are included. For a country where annual government revenues are measured in low billions of dollars, this debt is significant. A March 2026 report by Madagascar’s Cour des Comptes (Court of Auditors) was scathing: it criticised the project’s financial management, noted the absence of any plan to secure an electricity supply, and concluded that “the financial sustainability of this project for the public purse appears never to have been considered.”
The transitional government has made no secret of its desire to renegotiate, or even cancel, the debt. During a February 2026 visit to Paris, President Randrianirina reportedly raised the cable car debt directly with President Emmanuel Macron, asking for its annulment. While the Elysée has not publicly responded, the issue has fuelled criticism in France as well. In March 2026, Communist Senator Marianne Margaté filed a written question to the French economy minister, denouncing “an unjust debt” and accusing the French government of having “preferred to support French companies to the detriment of the population of Madagascar.” Similar concerns had been voiced as early as 2021 by other French parliamentarians who questioned whether a pricey cable car was appropriate for a capital where basic sanitation and road maintenance remain pressing needs.
Back in Antananarivo, the public is equally divided. Many taxi drivers and taxi‑be operators opposed the cable car from the start, fearing it would steal their customers. Street vendors like Félicitée Rasolomampionona, who sells toys and umbrellas near the Soarano station, lament that the idle infrastructure has not delivered any relief from congestion. “What a pity the cable car doesn’t work. It would help unclog the city centre,” she says. But her neighbour, a newspaper seller, is more sceptical: “Who can afford it? Even the shared taxis at 600 ariary [12 cents] – many of us have to ask the driver for a discount.”
Social and Political Symbolism
The Antananarivo Cable Car has always been more than a transport project; it is a prism through which deeper tensions about Madagascar’s development model are refracted. For its supporters, it represents a forward‑looking country embracing technology, sustainability, and creative problem‑solving. For its detractors, it epitomises a top‑down approach to modernisation that prioritises prestige infrastructure over everyday needs like water, electricity, and affordable food.
These debates are not unique to Madagascar. Urban cable cars across Latin America have succeeded only when paired with heavy public subsidies, social programmes, and deep integration with other transport modes. In La Paz, Mi Teleférico is a lifeline for millions because the government committed to keeping fares low and connecting the aerial network to bus and pedestrian routes. In Medellín, the Metrocable was part of a broader “social urbanism” strategy that included libraries, schools, and public spaces in once‑marginalised hillside neighbourhoods. In Antananarivo, those complementary policies were absent. The cable car was launched as a standalone engineering feat, with scant attention to the operating company, the fare structure, or the electricity supply – all of which turned out to be fatal omissions.
What Happens Next?
Despite everything, the cable car’s physical infrastructure is largely intact. The towers, stations, and cables remain salvageable. The transitional government has publicly stated its intent to preserve the investment, at least until a decision is made. The audit by Colas and POMA has suggested that recommissioning the line could be done within a reasonable budget, provided a reliable power source and an operator are in place.
Several scenarios are possible:
A Phased Relaunch with Subsidies: If donors or the national budget can cover the electricity connection, operating subsidies, and lower fares, the cable car could attract genuine ridership. This would require political will and a shift away from prestige towards service provision.
A Long‑term Mothballing: The system might sit dormant for years while the debts remain on the books, a costly monument to a failed dream. This would damage investor confidence and leave the urban mobility crisis unresolved.
A Partial or Total Repurposing: There has been no formal discussion of dismantling the cable, but some critics have suggested converting the stations into markets or community centres. Such an outcome would represent a complete reversal of the initial vision.
Any restart would also need to address the governance vacuum. A dedicated public transport authority, clear operational standards, and a transparent fare policy are all necessary to avoid repeating the mistakes of 2025. The second line to Ankatso University, already shelved, might never be built unless the first line proves its viability.
A Reflection on Modernising Africa’s Capitals
The Antananarivo saga offers lessons far beyond Madagascar. As Africa’s cities grow at an unprecedented pace – with populations projected to double by 2050 – the search for sustainable, efficient transport will intensify. Cable cars have genuine potential in hilly, high‑density environments where roads cannot easily be expanded. But the Antananarivo experience underscores that technology alone is not enough. Success depends on:
Integrated planning that links transport investment with energy, land use, and social policy.
Affordability for the target users, which often means public subsidies.
Political durability so that projects survive changes in leadership.
Community engagement to build a sense of ownership and trust.
Perhaps the most poignant image is that of the empty cabins, stored like sculptures, while beneath them the city’s streets remain as clogged as ever. The cable car was meant to lift Antananarivo out of its traffic nightmare. Instead, it became a mirror reflecting the city’s deeper struggles: poverty, weak institutions, and the difficult balance between ambition and practicality. Whether it will ever truly “soar” again remains an open question – one that will define not just the future of urban transport in Madagascar, but also the country’s ability to navigate the choppy waters of modern development.
