Getaway Magazine, February 2010
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The HEAVEN beyond Hell-Ville

Newscasts reporting running battles and casualties in the streets of Antananarivo, Madagascar’s capital had an understandably damaging effect on the country’s image last year. But just how bad is it, really?

By Evan Haussmann.

‘Madagascar, wow! But war’s broken out there,’ came the predictable response from the umpteenth person I told about my impending trip. To some, a dhow-supported kayak tour of islands along the northwestern coast of Madagascar seemed a bit gung-ho. To argue that going there to see first-hand what the situation on the ground was evoked a certain scepticism about my sanity.

Truth is, I had to trust the judgement of Ross Murray, co-owner of Madagascar Island Safaris and, in the Sakalava language, he said, ‘Alotsika!’ – Let’s go!

A few weeks later and after an uneventful flight (no body cavity searches or bribes), the group of 11 sweaty vazahas (tourists) met on the cacophonous slipway of Nosy Be’s Hell-Ville town harbour. The colourful town with its well worn French colonial architecture is named after a certain Admiral Louis de Hell, the French governor of nearby Réunion Island at around the turn of the last century. But somebody had better tell the locals (who still refer to it as Hell-Ville) that officially the town has for some time been renamed Andoany.

Pretty soon after launching brightly coloured kayaks from the good ship Salama Tsara’s upper deck, the Hell- Ville bustle faded behind us as we set off on the first leg of our trip to Mahalina, first stop Nosy Tanikely. I shared a double kayak with Richard Dennison (later dubbed ‘The Anarchist’ for his gentle counterculture views on life). It wasn’t long before a good-natured animosity developed between us, brought on by a rudderless kayak slewing drunkenly in an increasing wind-chop. Our banter, the type common among old friends, became entrenched after we voluntarily capsized to cool off. Bad mistake. We were sorry to have jovially waved the others ahead when we discovered our vessel had half-filled with water while we were mucking around. Sinking our toes into the bleached sand of Nosy Tanikely after paddling with ballast came as a relief. We caught our breath before we donned snorkelling gear and ducked our heads under the island’s azure skirt.

Coral heads appeared to be haphazardly strewn along the sandy seabed, supporting a sci-fi cast of life forms. A platter-sized batfish shadowed the languid movements of a hawksbill turtle while a technicoloured parrotfish swam by sifting for food between sea anemones. A school of silver fish surged across our field of view as if somebody had drawn a giant, living curtain. A snorkeller spluttered to the surface grinning and babbling excitedly through her snorkel, her reaction summing up our experience perfectly. All this before midday on day one! We ate a hearty lunch and regained our energy on board the dhow while the crew busied themselves with sailing the already blissed-out vazahas to Mahalina beach.

 

On arrival there, the Anarchist and I scavenged bits and pieces off other kayaks including (sorry Ross) a pin off the tender’s backup outboard to make HMS Sponge steerable, while the others settled into A-frame bungalows up the beach beneath bowed coconut palms. By the time we MacGyvers had argued ourselves to working consensus, local Three Horses Beers had begun to flow and the smell of grilling kingfish had us salivating.

Our routine was soon established: rise early for breakfast and get paddling before the wind chopped up the ocean surface. Each day we looked forward to tasty food, often prepared in transit and served on the dhow or a beach. We’d then sail or kayak to the next island camp or beach bungalow. Ross quickly adjusted the route and paddling distances to suit the group. Some of us, no names mentioned, opted not to kayak on some days.

Abstinence wasn’t a bad option, considering there was no sun-baked physical exertion, an increased chance of catching fish, abundant cold beers A school of silver fish surged across our field of view as if somebody had drawn a giant, living curtain

Fady or taboo
All over the country, you’ll hear people talk about something being fady. Essentially it means ‘taboo’. Fady are beliefs created by tribal soothsayers and elders and are intended to have a harmonising effect on the society. Fady varies from place to place and ranges from not working on a certain day to being forbidden to enter a certain piece of bush for fear of disturbing the ancestors. In some areas, fady beliefs have contributed to the conservation of nature.

One evening we ran a little late and our nahooda (dhow captain) showed why it takes seven years to earn this hugely respected title by safely bringing the craft into a large bay on a dropping tide in the dark. In the morning, we woke up in a place with a story. During the Russo-Japanese war in 1905, a Russian warship, the Vlotny, was sent to this sheltered stretch of coastline and told to wait for further instruction. The facts aren’t clear, but the story goes that the ship’s crew was thought to have been forgotten by their superiors. On finding themselves faced with war or life in this tropical paradise with the beautiful Malagasy girls, the crew became mutinous. The captain, fearing for his life, capitulated and the ship stayed put, save for two occasions when they ventured out on pirating missions. Many of the sailors are thought to have died of malaria, but the survivors made this bay their home. Who can blame men for choosing paradise over war and cold, harsh mother Russia? They gradually dismantled the ship after it ran out of coal fuel, selling and trading pieces of it or using them on land. Andrew Blaine, a South African sailor, lives there but disputes parts of the story. ‘I’ve dived all over this place and cannot find any evidence of the ship,’ he says. He also thinks the Western-style gravestones on the shore of the bay are not necessarily those of the sailors. Whatever the real story, there must be some element of truth to it or this tranquil sweeping stretch wouldn’t still be known as Russian Bay.

A couple of hours paddling took us further south where we hauled our kayaks out of the tepid waters and up Nosy Iranja’s silvery beach. Tents had already been set up for us and a bonfire stood ready for the horizon’s blues to melt into the golds of sunset. All we had to do was use the caipirinha cocktails and G&Ts the crew thrust at us to toast the privilege of being there.
 

In the morning, embers still smouldered and those who could get up took an exploratory dawn stroll. We hiked up the spine of the island through lush village gardens, bursting with fruit and flowers. On the apex we came upon a freshly painted tube of steel and rivets looking a bit like Tintin’s cartoon rocket. The now defunct old iron lighthouse was built by Gustave Eiffel, who’s also famous for the Casa do Ferro, a steel house in Mozambique, as well as some or other landmark in Paris, France. We walked back through ylangylang- scented thickets and along a beach before looping through the waking village. Fishermen and kids busily ferried nets and cargo to bobbing pirogues before deploying square sails in the offshore morning breeze. They would return with the catch only when the wind changed direction in the afternoon, by which time we would already be scouting the coves and groves of remote Kalakajour Island, even further south.

This island was the turning point for our journey. We wouldn’t have known it, but supplies had apparently begun to run low. Regardless, the comfortable bungalows and convenient lapa setup, long walking trails, birding, excellent snorkelling and good fishing prompted a unanimous decision to savour the place for an extra day. Who needs ice anyway?

We walked through ylang-ylang-scented thickets and along a beach before looping through the waking village Serendipitously, the decision dovetailed nicely with the Madagascan relief that working on a Thursday is fady, or taboo (see box on previous age). Hey, paddling can be viewed s work, so what the hell, I thought. When in Rome....

Throughout the journey, each day produced tireless beauty and our group of easy-going travellers formed close bonds wrapped by a once-in-alifetime experience. Somewhere near the end of our trip, off yet another beautiful beach, paddling solo, I had the distinct feeling of moving through an especially cheesy, three-dimensional tropical postcard. Each stroke seemed to turn the world beneath the craft, quietly revealing another beautiful secret, or the promise of one. By that stage in our journey we’d spent time just metres from a baleen whale suckling her calf, chatted to wrinkled solo fishermen riding skinny craft too far from land, got peed on by lemurs, shared starry nights, hearty meals and a ton of laughs.

All while the rest of the world cowered behind takeaway dinners forming negative opinions about this wonderland from the evening news. Revolution? What revolution?

Thoughts from the cockpit: “There can’t be many better ways to experience Madagascar than this type of dhow-based adventure. I loved every moment.”

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