Go Magazine

Mauritius, Comoros, Seychelles… islands where warm turquoise water washes over white beaches and a gentle breeze stirs the palm fronds.
But you can barely afford the little umbrella in the welcoming cocktail. Take out your atlas. Trail your finger along Madagascar’s west coast. Look at the top left. You’ll find the Nosy Be archipelago, more or less seven small islands in the Mozambique Channel (“nosy” meaning island).

In the harbour of Nosy Be’s main town, Hell-ville, you’ll find the Salama Djema a 35-foot dhow hand-built by Mohamed Bakary. And aboard the Salama Djema – which means “Hello, I’m fine” in Malagasy – things are just hunky-dory, because this boat takes you from island to island at a fraction of the price you’ll find in the glossy brochures.

Granted, you’re not going to travel in luxury when you sail on the Salama Djema. You sleep in tents on the beach and eat out of the sea. Your shower is a bag of water hung up in the branch of a tree.
But, oh, the beaches…they are more beautiful than on the postcards.
We’ll be sailing on the Salama Djema for the next seven days to islands and beaches in and around the Nosy Be archipelago. Come along, join us on board.
A dark-skinned woman with a broad smile puts a frangipani garland around my neck. “Welcome to Madagascar.”

Seven of us wait outside the airport at Hell-ville for the two other people who will be joining us for the trip on the Salama Djema. Sweat beads on everybody’s foreheads. It’s not for its mosquitoes or the heat that the place is called Hell-ville; it’s named after Admiral de Hell, a French governor from Réunion.
Photographer Dawie Verwey and I get in the car with Bunty and Austin Sayer, retirees from Umkomaas. Their baggage is missing. “What’s the point in worrying?” says Bunty. She’s already got the island vibe.
We stop at a little shop, the Salama Djema Boutique, where a tall man, barefoot, clad only in shorts and with an open shirt, introduces himself to us as Mohamed Bakary, our skipper.

His partner from South Africa, Ross Murray, arrives on a motorbike. They shake hands and hand out cold beers and Cokes (called “koka” by the local people).
Later, at the Ambonara Hotel, there’s a bit of toing and froing because there are quite a few single people on the trip and not enough single beds. “Upstairs,” motions a noticeably irritated Mohamed.
Luckily, in Madagascar most things are “no problem”. I end up sleeping in Bunty and Austin’s loft. Ross says that their lost baggage will be at the boat tomorrow.
From my window I watch the sun set behind the palm trees. A bright green gecko scuttles across the windowsill. The scent of frangipani fills the night air.

Day 1 : Hell-ville to Russian Bay
At the small harbour we gingerly climb aboard the rocking Salama Djema. Our bags are loaded into the small cabin. Inside the stuffy cabin, Elliane Tiane, Mohamed’s sister-in-law and our chef, is brewing a pot of coffee. Our other crew members are Ettiene Mozambique and Patric Fianena. Only Mohamed can speak English. Madagascar was a French colony for about 75 years and the French have never really embraced the English language, or its speakers.

On the deck at the rear there are wooden benches around a small table. And on the front deck you can doze off in the sun or in the shade under a sail.
“Merci beaucoup!” Austin exclaims suddenly. Their baggage arrived.
Mohamed starts the engine and some of us move to the front to watch the Salama Djema/s bow cut through the water. Our first destination is Russian Bay, on the western coast of Madagascar, about a three-hour trip away.
The sea is the colour of blue Powerade. Island silhouettes are visible through the early-morning haze. Small boats with sun-faded sails that billow in the wind ply the flat surface of the ocean. My eyelids are beginning to droop.
A while later Roberta Pazdro, a Canadian film-maker, pops her head out the cabin: Lunch is ready. Everyone is gathered on the deck. Elliane carries a large bowl of sticky rice to the table, then a plate of prawns in tomato sauce and a large salad. Everybody eats in silence, savouring every bite of the delicious seafood.

We pass a lazy, serene afternoon, before the boat enters the deserted Russian Bay and anchors in the deeper water. We never sleep on the boat. We just pack what we need for the night and Ettiene rows us ashore in a small boat.
A Russian warship was sent here during the Russian-Japanese war in 1905 –their mission was to attack any passing Japanese ships. As soon as the Russian crew set foot on Madagascar, they were overwhelmed by Malagasy hospitality. A mutiny was unnecessary, as the officers were smitten as well. They stayed on the beach, caught fish and even traded with passing pirates. The last Russian died in 1936.
I get off the rocking row boat and wade through the warm water towards a small beach. Barely 10 m from the shore the forest encroaches on the beach. A Malagasy cow, a zebu, stands under a tree, a couple of metres away from my tent.

Later, we feast in the dim light of an oil lamp – on coconut rice and crab and the barracuda that Austin caught earlier in the day. Our fingers glisten in the pale light as we crack open the crab legs, the scent of Peaceful Sleep in the air. Forget porcelain plates and crystal glasses – but a luxury cruise liner would not be able to anchor here.
Later, Ettiene brings us finger bowls with hot water to clean our sticky fingers. Out at sea, three lights glimmer in the dark – fishermen plying their trade.

Day 2: Russian Bay to Nosy Iranja
“I studied to be a dentist, but the money ran out,” Mohamed tells me. It’s a three-hour trip to Nosy Iranja, where we will spend the next two days.
“Luckily, my English is okay. I sailed with a South African, Paul Greenwood, for a few years.”
“At one stage, I sailed Paul’s boat from Madagascar to Richard’s Bay in South Africa where I got my skipper’s licence. One morning, a few years later, Paul phoned me and asked me to teach Ross Murray to sail. ‘Wait for him at Toliara,’ he said.”
When Ross came sailing into Toliara, Mohamed was waiting for him on the jetty.
The Capetonian, who once ran a river-rafting outfit, told us on the first evening in Hell-Ville how he and Mohamed sailed around the Indian Ocean for two years.
“On our way to the Seychelles Mohamed wondered what he was going to do when we’d finished sailing. We came up with the idea that he should build a pirogue, a small hollow tree trunk, to take vahazas (foreigners) on day trips.
“Back in Nosy Be Mohamed started building his boat, but I think in his mind’s eye he saw himself as the captain of a much bigger boat. One year later, the adapted dhow with a small cabin and a toilet was finished,” Ross said.
Ahead of us lies Nosy Iranja like a chameleon with its long tongue sticking out. It’s actually two islands: the larger Nosy Iranja Be and the considerably smaller Nosy Iranja Kely. A 1,5 km sand spit connects the two islands during low tide.
In the late afternoon we venture out of the shade. I walk along the beach toward the only village on the island. Small huts on short stilts are clustered together on the edge of the beach. Some houses have gardens and pink flowers grow in pots next to front doors.
Most of the people here work in a hotel or catch fish. Through an alley I notice women with bright cloths wrapped around their bodies clapping hands. It’s a soccer match.
I want to go closer, but is it the right thing to do? Will they be flattered by my interest or will I offend them?
I stay on the outer reaches. Two young girls come running after me. They look at me with big brown eyes and say: “Bonbons?” – French for sweets.

Day 3 : Nosy Iranja
“Okê people, let’s go,” says Mohamed. He wants to show us the island. We walk through a cool forest in the direction of the village. Above us the trees are laden with mangoes and jackfruit, a spiny fruit that looks like a huge, squiffy chestnut. It tastes like a cross between a banana and a pineapple. Ripe mangos lie trampled underfoot. We take a small path to the top of a hill where on old lighthouse is rusting in the sun. At the top, Mohamed points out a long green arm of land in the distance, the peninsula of Ampasindava.

Along the coastline you can see lots of little inlets and bays, all completely deserted. The lighthouse was pre-manufactured by the firm belonging to the famous Frenchman Gustave Eiffel, before it was brought to Nosy Iranja.
Madagascar became a French colony in 1896. You can still see the French influence in the architecture and the French loaves that everyone buy.
Madagascar’s original inhabitants came from Malaysia, Indonesia and East Africa. The Portuguese were the first Europeans to arrive, but there were already Arab settlements along the coast.
Later, British, French and Dutch pirates used Madagascar as a base to attack ships travelling around Africa via the Cape of Good Hope. Today, it has a population of 18 tribes, each with their own customs, each equally proud of the Red Island (as Madagascar is known).

It’s low tide and the white sand spit linking us with the smaller island has revealed itself. The sand is warm and soft underfoot.
At the Iranja Hotel Eco-lodge we buy ice-cold cocktails and an espresso, and sink into the soft cushions of the deck chairs. Everybody makes use of the clean, neatly tiled bathroom and uses the flush loos.
Before the stretch of sand can disappear under the blue water, we saunter back to our camping spot. The rising tide covers the spit, so that Nosy Iranja Kely is cut off again.
The sun is suspended in the blue sky like a gleaming white Christmas decoration. In the distance the Salama Djemabobs in a huge bowl of blue punch.

Day 4 : Nosy Iranja to Lokobe
It’s still early when we wade through the lukewarm water towards the Salama Djema. Ettiene calls out: “Vies!”. He grabs the fishing rod, but the more experienced Mohamed quickly takes it from him.
Quite a way behind the boat a silver thunderbolt appears and disappears in the water. It’s a whopper of a fish! It drags Mohamed to the front of the boat. His forearms tremble, but he holds on. “Mora, mora,” he shouts to Ettiene who in the meantime has jumped in behind the helm. “Slowly, slowly.”
We rush for a front seat to watch the spectacle. It’s better than the Discovery Channel.
Mohamed clings to the rod. “Bieg vies, bieg vies!” After about 20 minutes the fish is on the deck. The kingfish peers at us with a black eye and hisses. They string a rope through the mouth and gills and tie the fish to the back of the boat with its tail in the water.

More action follows later the day. “Dolphins!” shouts Mohamed. In the distance we see a few grey fins cutting through the water. Mohamed turns the boat in their direction and whistles. The dolphins approach on cue.
We scrabble to the front. I hold onto a tackle rope right at the tip of the boat. About 20 dolphins frolic in the bow break of the Salama Djema. Their bodies gleam in the bright blue water. They keep in the front of the boat like self-appointed guides.

We can hear the sounds they make to communicate with one another. I feel the wind in my hair. The blue of the ocean stretches as far as I can see. It’s the Kate-and-Leo moment on the bow of the Titanic, but not half as cheesy.

Day 6 or 7, or 5, ag, I’ve lost track : Russian Bay to Lokobe Reserve
Drip, drip. Silence. Drip, drip, drip. We removed the flysheets from our tents earlier in the evening to let the breeze in. Drip, drip, drip, drip… Here comes trouble. I rush outside and pull the flysheet over, but I don’t pull it tightly enough. As I dive into my tent the heavens topple a huge bucket of water over our camping spot. The water makes dark stains on my mattress. Pools form in the corners of my tent.

I don’t know what to do. So I wait. Nature has won. After 10 minutes the rain stops. I twist my body so that I’m lying on the only dry spot. Through the whole cloud burst Roberta snores. Oblivious.
“I can’t ‘elp if you don’t spread your fly sheet,” Mohamed says, laughing.
One by one we plunge into the water near Nosy Tanikely en route to Lokobe. We are soon surrounded by zebra fish. Bands of parrotfish, damselfish and Moorish idols flit past – yellow, orange and blue ones with stripes, dots and squares.

After half an hour’s snorkelling I reach Tanikely’s shore. The island is a marine reserve. I run across the hot sand and follow a small footpath to the top of a hill. I am looking for lemurs.
Suddenly a lemur flies past in front of me and grabs a branch. I follow it back down to the beach to where a few tourists are eating seafood. Five lemurs sit in the branches above them, round, yellow eyes giving them a startled look.
They’re quickly bored with the pieces of mango the tourists offer them. They drop their heads on their forearms and fall asleep, legs dangling from the branch.

Lemurs are indigenous to Madagascar. There are some 50 species, including the smallest primate on earth, the mouse lemur. Two new species have also recently been discovered, I read in the National Geographic.

Day 6 : Lokobe Reserve
Groundhog Day. Today was just like that movie in which Bill Murray relives the same day over and over again. It’s hot. Everybody’s asleep and the only thing you hear is the waves and Austin snoring.
This morning we landed at Nosy Komba, one of the more commercial islands. On the beach, women sat on the soft sand embroidering colourful pictures of fish, turtles, flowers and chameleons, things distinct to Madagascar, on white linen. Along the road people sell beautiful woven bags and small hand-carved pirogues.

They greeted you with a warm “bonjour” and, if you linger at a product, they might say, “I give you good price.” But they’re not pushy.
The whole village smelled of vanilla. I remind myself to buy some –it’s only R20 for a whole bunch of pods.
In the park one of the guides put a piece of banana in my hand. Before you could say “maki maki” (Malagasy for lemur) a female lemur landed on my shoulder. Her fur felt soft against my cheek, like a cat’s. At some stage I also had a snake around my neck and a huge chameleon made small scratches on my arm with his nails.
Later Mohamed weighed anchor at Nosy Vorona on the way back from Lokobe for our last night sleeping out. This little island has the most beautiful coral in the archipelago. I see a lot of cowries, the kind that your mother used to put to your ear when you were small so that you could hear the sound of the sea: Wooosh!...
Now we’re lying here, right next to those very waves, barely 10 m from our tent.

Day 7 : Lokobe Reserve to Nosy Komba
It’s with heavy hearts that we bade goodbye to Mohamed, Elliane, Ettiene and Patric this morning.
Now we are sitting on Bruce and Karolina’s deck at Floralies, drinking Coke with a shot of raspberry vodka that they brought with them. A light breeze, heavy with the scent of frangipani, cools our skin.
Barely a stone’s throw away the waves lick the trunks of the palm trees. On the other side of the water, Hell-ville’s lights glimmer in the darkness. A few kilometres further lies Ivato Airport, from where we’ll depart tomorrow for Antananarivo.
Then Johannesburg. And back to Cape Town.
This island life is barely six hours’ flying and six months’ saving away. Next time I won’t have to put the glossy brochure back on the shelf with a wishful sigh. I’ll be able to tell the travel agent: “You know what? “I’ve been there.”

From go!February 2007