TOUCH DOWN // AUTUMN 2017
ILLUSTRATION © NATASHA JOHNSON
ILLUSTRATION © NATASHA JOHNSON
A Madagascan HONEYMOON
BY MARELISE VAN DER MERWE
On a storm-battered boat to Antarctica , Billy Connolly unforgettably said : “ If you must vomit , do it somewhere spectacular .” Those words came back to haunt me as I travelled through Madagascar , vomiting in increasingly exotic places . Madagascar is a biodiversity hotspot that has boasted the discovery of some 600 new species in recent years . These include the world ’ s smallest primate , the mouse lemur ( weighing in at 30 grams ), and the master of camouflage , the leaf-tailed gecko , which – when I look back at my photos – I still can ’ t see . My wife and I were blessedly led by a field guide who may have moonlighted as a wizard , because he tracked the mini-lemur at night from around 200 metres away and the master of camouflage from a similar distance . He had worked as David Attenborough ’ s adviser , he mentioned casually . I still wish we had spent more time with him in the jungle than on the beaches , which were beautiful , yes , but the jungle was a place of wonder . The tummy bug complicated matters a little . We arrived in Madagascar days after Mandela died . No South African journalist slept that week . Add 36 hours of travelling
TALES FROM THE ROAD
after a flight delay , our botched wedding ( long story ) and various other mishaps and all we needed was travellers ’ diarrhoea . Ha-ha-ha . It was funnier before it happened . My wife – who worships at the food altar – took it like a soldier . On Christmas day she chartered a boat and announced we were travelling , by sea , to a nearby island to sample the cuisine . I thought I was being brave ordering an undressed cucumber salad . She gave me a withering look and popped a Valoid . “ I ’ ll have the lobster !” she bellowed . After that holiday we agreed that she was the brawn of the operation . Nothing got in her way . Not giardia parasite nor language barrier – and the latter was significant , because Malagasy is unreasonably generous with consonants . I lost to both . We were staying in an exquisite resort atop a mountain that involved an hour-long crawl by taxi – and I use this term generously to describe a phlegm-hocking man barely straddling an engine and two cylinders – down a winding gravel path to the nearest village . Getting around was no picnic . But it was so worth it . Outside the capital , “ rural ” doesn ’ t cover it . Antananarivo is an extraordinary city , a paradise for architects and explorers . But further out even towns are a haze of cabins and woodfire . The first national road
we took – the N1 or N2 equivalent – was about the width of a single-lane street and the maximum safe speed was 50-60km / h . Adding to the chaos , everyone hooted at each other . Just to say hello , the driver cheerfully explained . Mora mora , a commonly used phrase , means slowly slowly , and it ’ s indeed considered the height of rudeness to be impatient . The pace is relentlessly chillaxed and electricity is on for only a couple of hours a day . It was a change from South African kvetching , where load-shedding is commonly regarded as a catastrophe except for optimistic sorts like my parents , who pretend they ’ re camping , take a nap or play Marco Polo . But the slow pace of Madagascar can also be melancholy . The island is so rich in resources : vanilla , ylang-ylang , ecotourism . Its economy should be ticking but it isn ’ t . A gruesome mix of colonialism , unfavourable trade agreements , corruption , poor infrastructure and political instability all hamper growth . Part of Madagascar ’ s unique stamp is the sense that time moves as slowly as pouring glass , which is great for tourists , but often an uncomfortable truth for locals . One wonders when the tide will turn .
62 // MAKE MEMORIES FOR LIFE