Love that title. It describes where we are now. Iles aux Nattes, just off Ile Sainte-Marie, 8km from the east coast of Madagascar. Ile Sainte-Marie is said to look like a mildly pregnant woman lying down but when combined with Ile aux Nattes, punctuating its south coast, I think they together resemble a roughly drawn exclamation mark. That exclamation mark could itself be punctuating the beauty and diversity of Madagascar or perhaps drawing selfish attention to these lovely islands themselves. More about these shores to follow.
The previous blog left you, dear reader, languishing at the bottom of the RN7 and maybe sensing the author's trepidation about the long journey back- at best two full days in the back of a car. Fate intervened however and our London agent miraculously conjoured us up two seats on a flight to the capital Tana. Released from both finding and suffering the ride home, we treated ourselves to three days of doing pretty much nothing on a remote beach in Anakao, 22km down the coast by speedboat.
Our bungalow was lovely but with no running water and limited leccy, sea-water bucket showers were the norm. They were at least luke warm though thanks to a simple but ingenious system where old Le Crueset casseroles full of sea water were stored in a mini metal and glass 'greenhouse' under the hot glare of the sun. Solar heating without the panels! The French owners also somehow kept the beer cold and the wine wasn't too bad either. Being French, they'd also imported some decent cheese, their supplies of which dwindled significantly during our stay. Flight to Tana was on time and fairly pleasant. We stayed one night in the Embassy district with its bijou boutique shops and fab restaurants where we dined out fairly royally including a litre of decent SA rouge for only £20 all in. Feature of my day however was finding someplace to get my hair cut.
Now, I keep my hair fairly short which therefore requires lots of trimming with the buzzing clipper thingies. I own three sets of these, one for each of the european, US and brit type plugs as even with adaptors, they don't seem to work outside their electronic comfort zones. I brought the brit ones with me as these would work in East Africa at least and did kick into life here in Madagascar. However, I hadn't realised that this set works only for trimming the trimmings and not the central thatch itself. So, off to find a barber's with a few helpful French phrases commited to memory, which, combined with a mime and a buzzing sound conveyed my wishes adequately to the lady who ran the unisex establishment into which I'd bravely stepped.
I was ready to describe that a number two guard would be ideal when the chap allocated to the task started in with an unguarded set of clippers. Now, having once shaved off an eyebrow having made the same mistake myself, I was about to warn him that he'd forgotten the critical accessory when he produced a comb and proceeded to give me a freestyle regulation number two cut with a fine eye for uniformity of hair length. As he finished I heard him say something in Malagasy to the boss lady which I roughly translated as 'so what do we charge the 'faza' for his haircut'? It was 5000 Ariary or £1.50. A snip!
A very early start the next day was rewarded with a second on-time flight from Air Mad. The hour waiting in departures was spent lazily observing some of the strange creatures that come to Madagascar. The tour groups, with their hollow-eyed, brain's gone to sleep expressions, shaped by days and weeks of operating solely on the well-rehearsed instructions of their guide, unable any longer to think clearly about where they are, where they're going or why. Those decisions have been made for them, they are but pawns in the tour company's chess game.
The intrepid sorts, who are constantly resplendant in their full safari suit gear, whether at the beach, restaurant, airport or rainforest. Any colour works as long as it's a thoroughly washed out shade of khaki. Quite what they intend to stash in the dozens of pockets adorning their perfectly matched outfits I don't know. Beards are de rigour, and not always just for the blokes. I love the mad scientist look of being just about to spot a new bird species that they seem to carry on their faces, even when doing something as mundane as waiting for a plane.
Sadly, there are also quite a few sex tourists here. We see them in many hotels, easily identified by their all too obvious differences from their prey. Old ugly fat French men. Young, very young, Malagasy girls. It's truly disgusting but amazingly they walk about without an effort to cover their shame and hotel owners seem to let them carry on. This has got to be stamped out. It's ugly in so many ways.
So, back to our exclamation mark islands. A circumnavigation of Ile aux Nattes today revealed the beauty of the island - ringed by soft white sand, surrounded by shallow water in so many hues of blue and with terrific views of the main island. Some lovely restaurants too. We settled on one with stunning views where I had probably the best mozzarella and tomato salad I've ever tasted. The frites were pretty good too and even better the waiter said that they were a 'cadeau' from the restaurant. Surely munching an entire bar of Robert chocolate later that afternoon would be too much pleasure for one person to bear? Er.... no.
So, to the main island for a few days. Day 1 was spent cycling to the main town on dodgy bikes, hired for £3 a day each. Our sole reward was a cracking French restaurant for lunch. Day 2 was spent in bed (alone) as a result of celebrating 11/11/11 a little to much. Why? Ten years ago I chose this date as being the latest time by which I'd be doing what I'm doing now. Achieved! Day 3 we hired a scooter (£9 including a tank of gas) and ventured north in search of a beach. Now, Jo had a scooter in London that she took to work every day. She'd passed her test and is a very competent scooterist. Now, while I'm Scotterish, I'm not a scooterist, having borrowed Jo's steed on only one occasion. Somehow though, I was landed with the driving responsibilities as apparently "I'm too heavy to have on the back of the scooter". The main advantage was that I got a helmet and she didn't. And tell you what - it was brilliant fun! The driving, not the helmet.
Today, Jo has dined on fois gras and fine steak (Zebu), coiffed decent plonk and enjoyed lychee rum on the house. This traveling lark isn't as tough as we make it out to be at times. Tomorrow we fly via Tana to Mahajanga, where I shall spend my 49th birthday. I imagine another day in bed recovering may be in order. Hopefully! Until then, a bientot!
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