Although Adrian went to bed at 9.00pm last night, he didn’t wake until 9.00am. Sundays being a day of rest in this very devout nation (as are Tuesdays & Thursdays, I believe, in the native religion) things were subdued as we stomped up the hill to the Queen’s Palace. Although the interior (original) wooden palace was burned down in ’96, the brick outer shell rises eyeless and enigmatic over the town, beckoning tourists. The climb was long but steady, and rewarding with many and unexpected views of inaccessible corners of the town. In the many churches, congregations of the faithful, in their host bib and tucker, sang unfamiliar words to familiar tunes. Groups of non-Christians played boules on the most unpromising of pistes, contending with rocks, tree roots, beer cans, falling twigs and the wrong sort of leaves. The Palace has vague signs of some restoration commencing, but they are few – two sheds and a lot of green rope to keep people out. Mounds of rusting, mangled ironwork and heaps of concrete rubble are testament to years of shoddy workmanship, and the theme is repeated on every street.
The museum where salvaged goodies are displayed is in a large, pleasant house, which was the P.M’s house during the monarchy. The queen always married him if she outlived the king, but the She-cats were very tenacious, though tiny, if their shoes and beds are indicative. But their crowns were substantial!
We took beer at a restaurant with live Malagasy music and dance, and followed a track down the hill. After a long and slightly depressing mooch round squalid, though wide, streets, discouraging dozens of beggars the while, we arrived back on L’Avenue de L’Indépendence. A voice said ‘Hello’. I ignored it. He repeated. It was the Japanese guy. And for the second time in two days, he needed rescuing – from two very tenacious beggars. Do you know, we had to go into a bar to escape. But they were undeterred and followed! The barman soon sorted them. Then we realised: everyone else in the bar was either a sex-tourist or a prostitute. Let’s leave a.s.a.p.