Exploring the perfume Island
Suddenly Jean-Pierre stopped still in his tracks, and with an air of arrogance announced, “If it wasn’t for me, you would all be dead!” Coming from Africa, and knowing that Madagascar didn’t have much to offer in the way of large carnivorous wildlife, we thought this comment a bit dramatic. However, it brought on panic-stricken gasps from the Europeans in our group. Jean-Pierre pointed to the offending threats: Three large boas coiled around the branches surrounding us. They seemed docile; a tell-tale bulge on one snake’s girth indicated that it was digesting its catch from the night before, probably an unsuspecting lemur. These reptiles hardly posed an immediate threat, but our guide had received the response he wanted. I have a fascination with snakes, and although I would not consider approaching a venomous striking one, I was drawn to these large slumbering constrictors. I approached one to feel the texture of its skin. I turned to share my fascination with Scott, but he was nowhere to be found. I then recalled his chronic fear of snakes. We later found him waiting for us back at the pirogues, to the amusement of our fellow explorers.
We had been after wildlife and eco experience, so this visit to the Lokobe Reserve with the flamboyant Jean-Pierre, had come highly recommended. It started with a jarring drive in rusty old Peugeot, driven by an equally rusty old man, followed by a paddle in a pirogue. We then arrived at the outskirts of the reserve, and joined some French and German tourists, to form a group of eight.
Jean-Pierre briefed us on what to look out for, (at no point mentioning sizeable snakes) and ordered us to stay together and keep quiet. We scanned the surrounding foliage for exotic wildlife, while avoiding tangling vines and trying not to trip over exposed roots. Every now and then, our guide would point out a lemur, bird or chameleon, and give explanations as to the medicinal or other uses of the plants. We certainly cannot argue that we got an eco experience, even if super-sized reptiles were more than Scott bargained for!
That evening, in the en-suite bathroom, I looked up and let out a scream that would cause one’s neighbours to dial 911. Scott ran in, with the heavy guidebook in hand, ready to use as a weapon in my defence. He could not control his laughter when he saw the cause of the drama. A snail, with a shell the size of a large apple, and a body as long as my foot, slowly made its way along the opposite wall of the bathroom. He questioned how the same woman, who that day had touched a boa, could be afraid of a snail, which would take several hours to reach where I was sitting. It was his turn to laugh at my expense.
My husband has two fears: snakes and flying. A hairy landing at Nosy Be, off the north-west coast of Madagascar, was his introduction to the island. Local ‘entrepreneurs’ bombarded us at the airport, even before we managed to locate our luggage. Taxi drivers, doubling as tour operators, vied for our business, guaranteeing that they could find us the best accommodation deal. Prostitutes offered to make our stay more enjoyable. We declined their offers and opted to take a taxi-brouse (open-backed taxi) to Ambatoloaka, where we discovered a small bungalow resort, right on the beach.
The accommodation was basic but comfortable, with running water, albeit cold, and a mosquito net. With the sea only meters away, we didn’t need more. The view from our tiny verandah was reminiscent of a chocolate box lid – picture perfect, no airbrush needed.
We chose to spend a day exploring the island, and taking a hike to Mount Passot. This would offer phenomenal views across the perfume Isle, as Nosy Be is also known. We decided against taking the heavy guidebook in the rucksack, which was already weighed down with several bottles of Eau Vive. We had familiarized ourselves with the route, or so we thought. The guidebook said it was a pleasant half-day outing, and as we were seasoned hikers, this seemed easy enough.
Our expedition started off from the beach, then passed sugar cane fields and a rum distillery. Local children greeted us with ‘Salut Vazah’ (greetings tourist) as we trudged inland on red dirt roads. The sun grew higher in the sky, the sea breeze dissipating as we moved further from the coast. Heavenly scents wafting through the air, created an olfactory overload as we hiked through plantations of ylang ylang, exported to the perfume houses in France. Colourful oversized chameleons clung to branches or crossed the path with their strange mechanical gait. By lunch time, we were bushed. We should have been near Mont Passot. However, as we scanned the horizon, all that met our eyes were fields of sugar cane standing tall, with not so much as a hill in sight. It soon became apparent that we were hopelessly lost which lead to our decision to head for the coast, as this would eventually bring us back to Ambatoloaka and our bungalow.
By late afternoon my fingers had taken on the appearance of pork sausages, I was covered in a heat rash and I had several cuts from the jagged black rock that we were clambering over. Scott assured me that our beach was just around the next corner; but I had stopped believing him several corners ago. This time he was adamant. We had run out of path, and getting around the corner involved swimming; hence, the second one of my phobias that I would have to face. I can swim. I like the sea. But what I don’t like is deep water with creatures unknown. Scott stared at me in disbelief as I refused to swim the 50 meters to our beach, and I insisted that we turn and go all the way back around. After much persuasion (and threats), I agreed to put the rucksack on my back, and climb on his back as he swam around the corner. What a sight we must have been for the tourists lazing on the beach!
That evening we opted for some authentic Malagasy cuisine and a few Three Horses Beers to compensate for the traumatic day. We discovered a hotely (open sided beach shack) a few steps from our bungalow. It was a modest structure: a palm-frond roof, held up by four poles, covering four tables and run by a husband and wife team. There was no kitchen as such, only a fire made on the sand. The location and charm of the place more than offset its lack of sophistication. Madagascar gained independence from France in 1960 and the French influence on the island cuisine is evident. We managed to communicate our order in broken French: Stir-fried vegetables and Creole style crab, both with coco rice - a rich sticky dish, in which the rice is cooked in coconut milk and seasoned with saffron; an excellent accompaniment to any dish.
To our amazement, the husband, donned goggles and snorkel, waded into the sea as the sun was setting, and 20 minutes later emerged with a fat crab! His wife shimmied up a coconut palm, plucked a coconut, and started grating it on a small device, consisting of a seat, with a sharp blade protruding from the front. A fresher meal you couldn’t get, and we decided there and then never to order chicken; we had seen a few fowl scratching in the dirt outside. By the time the meal arrived, we were ravenous. An old man seated at the next table enthusiastically plonked a large tumbler of pineapple rum in front of us, with one word: “RUM!” He then watched each sip that we took, with the same expression on his face as that of a small child who presents his mother with a homemade object d’art, awaiting approval. This was definitely not fast food, and from then on we arrived early, with our books in hand, to enjoy the whole experience, not just the end result.
A trip to the main village of Hellville was required to stock up on provisions and exchange currency. The town derived its name, not for the reasons one may think, but after a French admiral. The taxi-brouse dropped us at the market, amid a flurry of activity. We stared in amazement at the ‘butcheries’ with carcasses of zebu, the local cattle, hanging outside in the tropical air, covered in flies and red dust. Anyone accustomed to buying their prime cuts neatly packed in a polystyrene tray from Woolies, would most certainly find this a little off-putting. Being a vegetarian, my breakfast threatened to resurface. I looked away, and focused on the stalls that were piled high with ripe tomatoes, the sweetest oranges and an array of spices and grains. Peddlers carried baskets of a doughnut-type pastry, which the locals seemed to enjoy, oblivious to the flies that at first glance appeared to be fat raisins.
Another traveller suggested a trip on a catamaran to Nosy Komba and Nosy Tanikely. We were picked up early from our bungalow, and set sail from the pier in a vessel that looked as though it hadn’t been repaired since the French rule. The crew dived for lunch; their catch would be the envy of any fisherman I know. The women prepared salads of vegetables fresh from the earth. We moored at Nosy Tanikely and snorkeled just off the shore, amid a colourful underwater world, until summoned to the feast. A long wooden table was set in the shade of the palm trees, with banana-leaf serving platters. A tantalizing array of fare was set out for our enjoyment: Sticky coco rice, crabs cooked in their shells, fish kebabs fresh from the catch, ginger and lime spiced chicken, fresh salads and large platters of sweet mango and banana. Ice-cold cokes quenched our thirst.
Nosy Komba (Lemur Island) had caught on to the idea that there is money to be made from tourists. Tame lemurs were paraded for us to photograph for a fee, and the head of the community welcomed us to their village, but later insisted on a ‘departure tax’ in order for us to leave.
Madagascar is not everyone’s ideal holiday. If you are looking for a Club Med package-type holiday, cushioning you from distressing experiences, then choose another tropical destination. Madagascar will offer a unique wildlife experience; expose you to people with unusual customs and superstitions, as well as beautiful scenery from the beaches to the rainforests. At times, you will be extremely frustrated. Public transport does not run on schedules – vehicles leave when they are full. The concept of queues does not exist; the one that pushes the hardest is attended to first. On this trip, we faced our fears, and learned a great deal about ourselves. The frustrations were worth the encounters and the knowledge gained.
Hillary Bradt’s “Guide to Madagascar” sums it up best with these words: "Madagascar's shortcomings can be maddening. Sometimes a little reflection reveals the reasons behind the failure to produce the expected service, but sometimes you just have to tell yourself 'Well, that's the way it is'. After all, you are not going to be able to change Madagascar, but Madagascar may change you."
© Rose-Anne Turner - As written for Travel Ideas
We had been after wildlife and eco experience, so this visit to the Lokobe Reserve with the flamboyant Jean-Pierre, had come highly recommended. It started with a jarring drive in rusty old Peugeot, driven by an equally rusty old man, followed by a paddle in a pirogue. We then arrived at the outskirts of the reserve, and joined some French and German tourists, to form a group of eight.
Jean-Pierre briefed us on what to look out for, (at no point mentioning sizeable snakes) and ordered us to stay together and keep quiet. We scanned the surrounding foliage for exotic wildlife, while avoiding tangling vines and trying not to trip over exposed roots. Every now and then, our guide would point out a lemur, bird or chameleon, and give explanations as to the medicinal or other uses of the plants. We certainly cannot argue that we got an eco experience, even if super-sized reptiles were more than Scott bargained for!
That evening, in the en-suite bathroom, I looked up and let out a scream that would cause one’s neighbours to dial 911. Scott ran in, with the heavy guidebook in hand, ready to use as a weapon in my defence. He could not control his laughter when he saw the cause of the drama. A snail, with a shell the size of a large apple, and a body as long as my foot, slowly made its way along the opposite wall of the bathroom. He questioned how the same woman, who that day had touched a boa, could be afraid of a snail, which would take several hours to reach where I was sitting. It was his turn to laugh at my expense.
My husband has two fears: snakes and flying. A hairy landing at Nosy Be, off the north-west coast of Madagascar, was his introduction to the island. Local ‘entrepreneurs’ bombarded us at the airport, even before we managed to locate our luggage. Taxi drivers, doubling as tour operators, vied for our business, guaranteeing that they could find us the best accommodation deal. Prostitutes offered to make our stay more enjoyable. We declined their offers and opted to take a taxi-brouse (open-backed taxi) to Ambatoloaka, where we discovered a small bungalow resort, right on the beach.
The accommodation was basic but comfortable, with running water, albeit cold, and a mosquito net. With the sea only meters away, we didn’t need more. The view from our tiny verandah was reminiscent of a chocolate box lid – picture perfect, no airbrush needed.
We chose to spend a day exploring the island, and taking a hike to Mount Passot. This would offer phenomenal views across the perfume Isle, as Nosy Be is also known. We decided against taking the heavy guidebook in the rucksack, which was already weighed down with several bottles of Eau Vive. We had familiarized ourselves with the route, or so we thought. The guidebook said it was a pleasant half-day outing, and as we were seasoned hikers, this seemed easy enough.
Our expedition started off from the beach, then passed sugar cane fields and a rum distillery. Local children greeted us with ‘Salut Vazah’ (greetings tourist) as we trudged inland on red dirt roads. The sun grew higher in the sky, the sea breeze dissipating as we moved further from the coast. Heavenly scents wafting through the air, created an olfactory overload as we hiked through plantations of ylang ylang, exported to the perfume houses in France. Colourful oversized chameleons clung to branches or crossed the path with their strange mechanical gait. By lunch time, we were bushed. We should have been near Mont Passot. However, as we scanned the horizon, all that met our eyes were fields of sugar cane standing tall, with not so much as a hill in sight. It soon became apparent that we were hopelessly lost which lead to our decision to head for the coast, as this would eventually bring us back to Ambatoloaka and our bungalow.
By late afternoon my fingers had taken on the appearance of pork sausages, I was covered in a heat rash and I had several cuts from the jagged black rock that we were clambering over. Scott assured me that our beach was just around the next corner; but I had stopped believing him several corners ago. This time he was adamant. We had run out of path, and getting around the corner involved swimming; hence, the second one of my phobias that I would have to face. I can swim. I like the sea. But what I don’t like is deep water with creatures unknown. Scott stared at me in disbelief as I refused to swim the 50 meters to our beach, and I insisted that we turn and go all the way back around. After much persuasion (and threats), I agreed to put the rucksack on my back, and climb on his back as he swam around the corner. What a sight we must have been for the tourists lazing on the beach!
That evening we opted for some authentic Malagasy cuisine and a few Three Horses Beers to compensate for the traumatic day. We discovered a hotely (open sided beach shack) a few steps from our bungalow. It was a modest structure: a palm-frond roof, held up by four poles, covering four tables and run by a husband and wife team. There was no kitchen as such, only a fire made on the sand. The location and charm of the place more than offset its lack of sophistication. Madagascar gained independence from France in 1960 and the French influence on the island cuisine is evident. We managed to communicate our order in broken French: Stir-fried vegetables and Creole style crab, both with coco rice - a rich sticky dish, in which the rice is cooked in coconut milk and seasoned with saffron; an excellent accompaniment to any dish.
To our amazement, the husband, donned goggles and snorkel, waded into the sea as the sun was setting, and 20 minutes later emerged with a fat crab! His wife shimmied up a coconut palm, plucked a coconut, and started grating it on a small device, consisting of a seat, with a sharp blade protruding from the front. A fresher meal you couldn’t get, and we decided there and then never to order chicken; we had seen a few fowl scratching in the dirt outside. By the time the meal arrived, we were ravenous. An old man seated at the next table enthusiastically plonked a large tumbler of pineapple rum in front of us, with one word: “RUM!” He then watched each sip that we took, with the same expression on his face as that of a small child who presents his mother with a homemade object d’art, awaiting approval. This was definitely not fast food, and from then on we arrived early, with our books in hand, to enjoy the whole experience, not just the end result.
A trip to the main village of Hellville was required to stock up on provisions and exchange currency. The town derived its name, not for the reasons one may think, but after a French admiral. The taxi-brouse dropped us at the market, amid a flurry of activity. We stared in amazement at the ‘butcheries’ with carcasses of zebu, the local cattle, hanging outside in the tropical air, covered in flies and red dust. Anyone accustomed to buying their prime cuts neatly packed in a polystyrene tray from Woolies, would most certainly find this a little off-putting. Being a vegetarian, my breakfast threatened to resurface. I looked away, and focused on the stalls that were piled high with ripe tomatoes, the sweetest oranges and an array of spices and grains. Peddlers carried baskets of a doughnut-type pastry, which the locals seemed to enjoy, oblivious to the flies that at first glance appeared to be fat raisins.
Another traveller suggested a trip on a catamaran to Nosy Komba and Nosy Tanikely. We were picked up early from our bungalow, and set sail from the pier in a vessel that looked as though it hadn’t been repaired since the French rule. The crew dived for lunch; their catch would be the envy of any fisherman I know. The women prepared salads of vegetables fresh from the earth. We moored at Nosy Tanikely and snorkeled just off the shore, amid a colourful underwater world, until summoned to the feast. A long wooden table was set in the shade of the palm trees, with banana-leaf serving platters. A tantalizing array of fare was set out for our enjoyment: Sticky coco rice, crabs cooked in their shells, fish kebabs fresh from the catch, ginger and lime spiced chicken, fresh salads and large platters of sweet mango and banana. Ice-cold cokes quenched our thirst.
Nosy Komba (Lemur Island) had caught on to the idea that there is money to be made from tourists. Tame lemurs were paraded for us to photograph for a fee, and the head of the community welcomed us to their village, but later insisted on a ‘departure tax’ in order for us to leave.
Madagascar is not everyone’s ideal holiday. If you are looking for a Club Med package-type holiday, cushioning you from distressing experiences, then choose another tropical destination. Madagascar will offer a unique wildlife experience; expose you to people with unusual customs and superstitions, as well as beautiful scenery from the beaches to the rainforests. At times, you will be extremely frustrated. Public transport does not run on schedules – vehicles leave when they are full. The concept of queues does not exist; the one that pushes the hardest is attended to first. On this trip, we faced our fears, and learned a great deal about ourselves. The frustrations were worth the encounters and the knowledge gained.
Hillary Bradt’s “Guide to Madagascar” sums it up best with these words: "Madagascar's shortcomings can be maddening. Sometimes a little reflection reveals the reasons behind the failure to produce the expected service, but sometimes you just have to tell yourself 'Well, that's the way it is'. After all, you are not going to be able to change Madagascar, but Madagascar may change you."
© Rose-Anne Turner - As written for Travel Ideas