Buffet du Jardin, Upper Tana, awaiting pizzas. Avoided front bar of Hotel Colbert because ‘les girls’ ply their trade from there, but this bar is just the same. At the coast, there are public notices against child sex, with confidential telephone numbers to shop people, and though some of these girls look only fifteen, I think they’re just legal. The guys hanging round are generally of the bland middle-aged variety; some are superannuated backpackers with an international weariness about them and those multiple-pocket jerkins to match. All lonely? Sad? Tacky? Can’t begin to comprehend.
Although today was loaded with stress, it turned out as planned, so far. Adrian smiled serenely through, thanks to liberal applications of St. John’s Wort, recommended for all those preparing to do battle with the Malagasy travel systems. Between 7.30 when we left Anakao on the boat, we benefited from six types of transport: the skiff Rififi for the transfer to Tuléar, then a zebu cart from the sea to the office; a pousse-pousse to the bank and back; Renault 4 taxi to the airport; Boeing 737 (free for all seating plan) to Tana and then a private car to the hotel. The reason for this final phase is convoluted, so more anon.
At the bank, we were unfortunate, despite having sussed the system sufficiently to slap down a passport in the line to keep our place, in getting behind a woman who was depositing 68,734,180 FrM. Every one had to be counted by hand by the cashier. Twice. And I counted every one with him. It took 48 minutes. Our relatively common (to us) transaction to cash 3 x $50 Travellers’ Cheques took two cashiers 15 minutes, working together. Not only did the computer system have them foxed, but the little shelf where they keep the carbon paper needed tidying in the middle of dealing with us. And two tiny boys/urchins, dressed only in the seams left over when the clothes have evaporated, needed an exceedingly black crumb of cash exchanging for a merely dark grey one. Value? 12p. And an exercise book which had to be regularly stamped kept sneaking under the glass partition.
Despite the posted closing time of 11.30, it started to shut about 11.00. It was (allegedly) open from 8.00. It is reckoned to open 2-4 each pm. Tough job, eh? This is why we’ve been unable, until today, to buy stamps. If you’re going to spend office opening hours in a queue, it’d better be a bank, as only FrM are working tender. Only one business anywhere we’ve stayed takes Visa, and only three towns have banks with foreign exchanges. On a fait tellement des calcules! So in a bit of a lather (St. J’s W. notwithstanding) having secured the return pousse-pousse driver by not paying him for a single journey, we captured a cab. Disconcertingly, the guy from the Safari-Vézo office stuck his head in at the window as we drove off and made a garbled request. Flustered, I fobbed him off, but felt a bit bad as he’d been quite pleasant before.
At the airport, the crazy system of putting your baggage in line to secure your place depends on the porters moving it up to the check-in desk. Of course, if you omit to grease their palms, they omit to notice your backpack, despite its garish hue. Teflon will secure a molecular transportation to the head of the queue: I took things in hand and moved my own. However, I had to capitulate to the tune of 6p later on when he rumbled me and chased me into the bar! Also into the bar came the man from Safari- Vézo, keen to explain what he really wanted. It was this: that we carry to Tana, to deliver to his brother at the airport, his savings to pay for their mother’s hospital care. And a packet of smoked tuna fish. Frozen. Wrapped in newspaper. No problem! Aagh. As a congenitally law-abiding citizen, I was unable to concur before administering questioning to the third degree. I made him count the money (500,000 FrM – around £60) and open the fish. I couldn’t smell it. Or a rat. And I’d prefer smoked tuna to coke anyway.
We conferred and decided that he was probably taking more of a gamble on us than the other way. And there is no douane. And banks are horrendously uncertain and expensive. And poor sod – if £60 makes a difference to his mum, why not help? But I wasn’t on St. J’s W. so fretted until successful transfer of said compromising package to a delightful man and sister who duly met us, gave us a brief tour of Tana, and dropped us at our hotel. Repercussions riddle my imagination, but I’m trying to quell them.
We did manage to confirm our flights to Jo’burg at the Interair office at the Hilton, thank goodness, but the BA leg is still a hope. Our room is an upgrade, so we watched local T.V. while showering and sipping brandy on the balcony. Now this (the T.V.) was a Treat. How can one resist a dubbed 1970’s Italian soap followed by….wait for it….competition Crossword Filling in front of a dining club audience? Heavy stuff. After seven minutes, I was streaks ahead of the three competitors, clearly under pressure from the context and cameras. Imagine the screen – clues and grid, with the answers as entered by Georges / Hernart / Suzie, cutting occasionally to the diners who have a paper version of the puzzle to mull over. Riveting stuff. G – vertical “mois de 30 jours” –tough, or what – nine letters. Fortunately, before I had a conceptual hernia, the anchor man of the station came on, in front of a crumpled curtain and read out the evening’s viewing, in the middle of which, his mobile phone went off. Sheepishly, he grinned and fumbled in his pocket to turn it off. Then we had the ads, advertising cheap deals on T.V. advertising, and a very odd ad for water purifier consisting of men in drag.
In the market this afternoon I watched an artisan converting a normal peach bra into a maternity bra by the judicious insertion of poppers and re-stitching. His neighbour in the Palissades was making shoes – from the constituent parts – wooden blocks, moulded soles, cardboard liners, rivets, a sewing machine, leather and fabric. Fascinating. In the usual way, the market is grouped by theme – about 800 stalls (and a display of art) sell: flip flops, bridal gowns, underwear, shoes, stationery, foam rubber, buttons and the necessaries of life, interspersed with a clutch of watch-menders, henna/candle mixers, and ironmongers.
I did find exactly the right gift for Malcolm (a carved 2CV) then found a better one made from a Heineken tin (60p). There are snowstorms for sale in the hotel, but they’re 60k (£7.50!), therefore over the limit, recently increased to £2. My effort should count for a reduction, I reckon. We also found, at least, postcards and stamps, but only felt we could cope with three. We dashed off a rhyme without the customary finesse, but…needs must.
“Madagascar’s a wonderful place
Of variety, beauty and grace.
When it comes to the crunch,
Everyone goes to lunch
So we’re learning to live at this pace.”

All this is true – the geology, tribal differences, vegetation, fauna etc. Plus the lack of urgency, legitimised by the historical (and legendary?) French legacy of the two hour lunch break. In the tropics, survival is not a great strain (c.f. Iceland) so the motivation to exertion can only be financial, so few bother. We witnessed a queue of 500 people today waiting for their “salaire” – not yet clear if it’s wages or dole, but the wait would be worse than at the bank, for sure. Despite the infuriating inefficiency, the generosity, openness, ready smiles and greetings offered by everyone – BUT EVERYONE – the joyfulness and lack of corrupting sophistication, even a naïveté (from a Western perspective, jaded by glitz, spick and spin) is humbling, enspiriting and enhancing. As we re-entered Tana, its familiarity was endearing, and after two weeks of rurality, it seems almost cosmopolitan, even clean! The sunshine makes the stones and colours warmer and everything is more agreeable. Cheers to Tana!