A Weekend Getaway

A weekend getaway. Finally, after weeks of feeling stress and trying, sometimes in vain, to control the tumult of emotions one feels in uprooting and attempting to stabilize and familiarize yourself we were going to get away. Nothing prepares you, I have decided, for uprooting yourself completely by country, culture, and language, short of actually going through the process yourself. It’s been hard, the tiredness that comes when you feel you are falling short of some pre intended goal you don’t remember establishing, countered only by the exhilaration of surpassing one of those same goals, is sometimes enough for you to learn a new tidbit about your own emotional health and stability. If it doesn’t teach me anything else I have learned through this last experience that I am stronger and much more capable than what I could have assumed before. Or maybe that is the point of knowing you’ve opened the right door; there’s no sign and nothing to keep us from closing it back up except ourselves and taking that challenge is what your soul needs to grow and keep the frustration of a stagnant existence at bay. And now I’ve completely sidetracked. So let me continue.
We were so excited and our spirits were high as we set out on our first taxi-brousse experience. I sat in the passenger seat, Joanna in the middle next to the driver. Taking motion sickness pills just in case since I didn’t know how good the “great” road we would be raveling was, I fought off the sleepiness until I felt its hold on me pass. The countryside was just too great to pass up. It is possible at some point in living on this island that I will grow so accustomed to my surroundings, but for now all I see is beauty everywhere I go. And that is a perspective I never hope to lose. I remember thinking during our 5 hour drive, that I would swear even the clouds and the sky are different than those at home. Then I felt the small sting of dismay when my inner voice told me what I knew to be true. I stopped looking at the clouds and sky a long time ago. Why do we stop seeing the beauty that surrounds us every day and only recognize the change?
We passed not only countryside but full temperate zones, coming out of brush land and red clay hills, passing over a muddy and violent series of waterfalls that were awing and belittling at the same time, into rain and wet greenery, national parks, blankets of lilies decorating ponds and irrigation damns, rice fields, and then into the coastal lands, wetlands with a faint smell of the sea. Each town we would stop to let off and collect more passengers and with each stop we were swarmed with children and women selling foods from both the area specifically and standard Malagasy finger foods. We passed through regions of guava and passion fruit, into corn and cashews. Milk vendors on the side of the road reminded us of the threat of tuberculosis ( found in the milk here) while brochette vendors gave us a fantastic and alto pleasurable snack of small meat cubes on a stick. Fried manioc, breads, brochettes, chicken pieces on platters, fruit…. It was a fun thing to look forward too with each stop just to see what new foods this region would present. Sharing the road with ox carts, the occasional stubborn herd of cattle and small clusters of goats that refused to move, we eventually made our to the coastal town of Mahajonga, one of the first European settlements made and one of the largest tourist cities for Malagasy and foreigners alike. Known for its great beaches, its 700yr old baobab tree, and its phenomenal boardwalk, Mahajonga boasts much more than can be seen. Its surroundings include an incredible national rainforest, a small stretch of reef type environments with outlying islands you can take ferries too and more white people than I have seen in a long while. It was also my first run in with a horrible system that, unfortunately, still exists here between the local older French male population and the younger Malagasy women population. Altogether though it was a phenomenal city and we were happy to arrive.
Transportation in the main cities is not as limited as you may think. We may not have subways, and the national railway is currently down but we have so many other creative means of travel. Ox carts and by foot are the local means but the larger cities offer taxis and the wonderfully frightening poss poss ( pronounced puss puss which the drivers will yell at you every time you walk anywhere… PUSS PUSS!!! PUSS PUSS!!! YOU WANT PUSS PUSS!!! I never got over it the entire time) We took a taxi to the first hotel on our list of places but one look at the foreigners with backpacks on our shoulders and the rates went double for what we expected. So we continued, by foot to the coast and got out first glimpse of the magnificent 700 yr old baobab tree of Mahajonga. It is complete fady to touch the baobab but our cameras captured enough for us. Walking up the coast we came upon two hotels, one a small basic hotel but before we could walk there we came across the La Piscine hotel, one of the nicest hotels in the city known for its 50m Olympic sized swimming pool and view. The hotel is built on the coast with the pool itself jutting into the sea like some pier. It was awesome to look at, complete with air-conditioning as we walked in, it felt like heaven. Talking with the woman at the front desk I got us a discount and we checked in for two nights, deciding that we had earned a little splurging. Our room, for both of us, came to about $45 US a night complete with a queen bed, shower (we both took at least 5) access to wireless internet, and use of the amazing pool. We felt completely spoiled. We checked in and relaxed for a second then left to check out the town, by foot of course. We found a restaurant of decent quality the basted Vietnamese cuisine and sat down with a bag of beers and water. The food experience there was mediocre except for a minor incident with sakay chili puree mistaken for sun dried tomato paste it went smoothly and we checked back into our room for a nighttime swim. As we looked up the face of the hotel we were surprised to realize we were one of three parties of people checked into the entire hotel. The next day I got the chance to use internet and skype with the boyfriend which was an awesome beginning to my vacation while I waited for Joanna to finish a meeting with a local health organization. When she returned back to the hotel room we set out for a fun day at the beach.
The beach was far but I can still remember the instant we saw it… little Malagasy homes stretched out on a stretch of sand intermeshed with giant vacation homes for some rich foreigners that had the opportunity to choose to live there. Our cab driver named Nemja agreed to meet us back here in two and a half hours, giving us ample opportunity to enjoy the area. As we walked onto the beach we were motioned over by a large group of Malagasy people enjoying themselves with beers, food, whiskey, and fruit. Their kids played in the sand while the adults sat under the beach umbrellas. At first we declined, and made our way to our own umbrella shade then decide to immediately go for a swim. As I headed out to the water a girl ran up to me and asked if we were going to stay at the beach. I said yes and then though I mistranslated when she said we had to pay. It ended up that we would have to pay to use the umbrella so we decided to take the people up on their offer and join them during the heat of the day at their umbrella. We sat down and it was immediately obvious that the men were a fair way into drunk while the women were keeping up the watchful vigil over the children. Something very strange happens when a foreigner speaking the local language joins a group. The normal boundaries o the sexes seem to disappear and while the women were quiet and more in the background of the conversation, we were brought to the foreground, offered drinks, joked with about drinking and the area and the culture and invited out to go dancing. The men were crowded around a bucket where two boys where shucking small live oysters into a glass with some lime juice. When I realized they were oysters my imagination was completely captured. I wanted shellfish! The entire time I noticed the wives just listening and playing with the most gorgeous children, one a healthy 4yr old girl named Narissa with glorious little black ringlets for her hair. I had no interest in the men’s drunken ridiculousness so I immediately socialized with the women and the girl who couldn’t stop hiding in her mother’s arms while peering back out at me under her mass of curls. I let my hair down to show her mine and she bubbled with giggles. When I gave her a mango we had brought for snack the shyness was gone and she and I sat in the background eating our fruit. I listened to Joanna making conversation with the men and resisted any efforts one of them kept exerting to get me into the conversation. I felt uncomfortable but was enjoying the company of Narissa. Once we had finished our fruit we thanked them for including us, respectfully declined dancing that evening and gave them a fake hotel location for safety’s sake then excused ourselves to go eat and swim.
We headed to the only obvious restaurant in the area and sat down as the only guests where the bungalow of the restaurant emptied out onto the beach. I had no idea what I was ordering but placed an order for two dishes then hid our stuff, and we headed out to swim. It felt wonderful! Months of dirt and sweat and the grim you feel on you continuously was nothing as I floated in the cool and salty ocean. I could almost feel myself healing, and in truth more healing occurred there than just the fresh salt in my wounds.
Refreshed we headed back up to the hotely to see if our food was ready, which it wasn’t. Joanna went to lay out under the sun as I relaxed in the shade. A woman came by with two buckets and asked “hoitra?”, the Malagasy word for oyster. At first I said no and so she sat in the shade of one of the local fishing sail boats that had been pulled up on the beach. By curiosity got the better of me though so I walked over and looked to see what else she had and ask the prices. One bucket held dozens of fresh nd stil live oysters while the other held just as many large red clams. The oysters were 500Ar for 12, the clams 600Ar for one. I immediately agreed intent on eating at least 2 dozen oysters. (each had a very small amount of meat, about the size of a nickel and I have a sever weakness when if comes to Fruis de le Mer!) We sat under the shade as she began to shuck and as I spoke to her in Malagasy her smile just kept getting bigger. We idly chatted as I happily swallowed one oyster after another until she offered me a clam. I have never liked raw clam in the states so at first I declined but then remembered my Dad’s letter to me in my journal that pushes me to try everything and be open to every opportunity and I remember thinking to myself, “When else will I have this opportunity.” So, slightly hesitant I agreed to one clam. She cracked into the meaty shell, skillfully cleaned and drained it slightly then handed it over to me gesturing that I should squeeze some of the lime into the flesh. I did, tilted my head back and sucked it out of the shell before I could hesitate again. My first chew was hesitant but I was greeted with a flood of sweet and phenomenal flavor that thrilled every taste bud of my senses! It was delicious and after I had finished swallowing I quickly ordered 4 more. I had no interest in the oysters at that point. The sweet red clams had completely enamored me and I had no intention of going back. I got Joanna to eat a few oysters and even try a clam we were given as a gift from the clam lady. As she left I had to convince myself not to call her back. Even now I remember the taste and texture and emotions of that moment. I cannot wait to have it again.
Our food finally arrived after that experience ended and we found ourselves staring at two large plates, one with a full crab smothered in a wonderfully aromatic curry sauce and the other with two prawns the size of my forearms. N We dug in with relish and when Joanna finished licking the plate 10 min later a part of us felt a twinge of sadness. It was an absolutely phenomenal meal. All for about $15 US for both of us. Stuffed, we headed back to the ocean for another swim and relax until the taxi came back.
The rest of the weekend passed with us wandering the city, talking to locals, trying to find stores only to see they worked on the Malagasy schedule of “close and open whenever the heck we want to”. We ate local food in the bazaar and brought business for our vendors as everyone crowded to see the vazahs who spoke Malagasy. I got some clothes, my first gigantic hat ever (ITS AWESOME ANF GREEN!), drank lots of fruit juices, ate lots of mangoes and drank cold cokes as we wandered the city. Our last day we left our fancy shmancy hotel for another that was recommended by some of the teachers at my school in Maeva. The hotel was quaint and cute, very empty, with a great large Malagasy style room complete with a partition wall for the shower and bathroom, a tv, and more importantly, A/C. We stayed on the top floor in possibly the best room on the corner of the building overlooking one of the main streets and a full area of local shops. It was an incredible view at sunset and sunrise. We shopped all that day seeing what the city had to offer in the way to tourists and locals alike then headed down to the boardwalk for our last sunset. The sky put on a show for us; pinks and purples combining with grays, yellows, and oranges rolling in to the coastline from the sea. Everyone was out to see the beauty: families, lovers, friends, business people and the local older French male population. It almost felt like a community event as we stroll along past a row of hotely’s whose smells boasted some phenomenal food possibilities but, in which, we were far to full to partake; promising, instead, to return on our next trip. As darkness fell we sat and drank the last of our water watching the people walk by, the children playing on the boardwalk wall and the men fishing on the edge of the rocks. With the night came the music, loud and blaring as they love it here, over the sounds of the waves and the conversation. We followed the music until the ice cream store then had to stop and make room in our incredibly full stomachs for one last bite of real ice cream. Ice cream here is in local flavors: rum, passion fruit, guava, strawberry, orange, vanilla, combo etc…I asked for strawberry and passion fruit together but the man didn’t listen to what I was saying. Seeing, instead, two vazahs he tried to give me two single scoops so I settled for a fresh strawberry ice cream which was worth every penny of the 50cents it cost! We ate and watched as French men propositioned Malagasy women with wallets drawn while parents rented small toy cars for their children to drive around with some assistance up and down the boardwalk. We grabbed a cab once our culinary experience had, we thought, been finished and went back to the hotel to shower and change. We decided, once back at home, that we should go to the hotel restaurant and get a bite just with it being our last night in town so we headed down. An hour later after a wild boar pate followed by two large sweet water prawns (once again easily the size of my forearms) and pork fillet over manioc with an onion compote, we were too full to breathe but so happily satisfied with the experience. Back at the hotel room we put on a movie on Joanna’s laptop but I last all of 5 min, being so happily stuffed and tired from the day of walking and haggling and beyond ready to surrender to the sweet sleep I had been waiting so patiently for.
Our next morning started before the sun rose, which was beautiful when it did. We headed down to the taxis, managing to fit everything again into our bags we had brought ( a minor miracle). We bought our tickets, got some street breads and street coffee, used a flush toilet for the last time at the nearby gas station and waited an hour for our bus to leave. We got decent seat right behind the driver with room for our legs to fold up against the front seats and space to put our belongings so we wouldn’t be separated. I popped a Dramamine to help ease a somewhat restless stomach and tried to force myself into sleep. I was, quite unfortunately, fighting nausea the whole way home but in no way did it damper the experience. Going home was just as exciting as the way in, more foods, more towns, more travel companions. Sitting in the back of the car you felt much more a part of each person travelling with you, much more so than sitting with the driver. Listening to the music, the laughter, the conversation, and experiencing every stop was so much fun. Every gendarme stop (random road check for documents) I met a new gendarme, one of which gave me knuckles in greeting which cracks me up even now. I still love the look of surprise when I say a basic greeting in Malagasy and continue the conversation farther. Getting home I was exhausted, with an over excited puppy I unpacked, poured a bucket over my head and looked forward to an amazing sleep.
Mahajonga was amazing. A port town of its own standing and caliber, it is huge. All the areas only briefly explored and still unexplored by me are calling me back for another go. But the fun and experience are still carrying with me forward. Even now, as I feel the frustrations of disorganization, assumptions, and the controlled chaos that governs my life here as an outsider trying to be in, and insiders that don’t realize what it feels like to be out, I can still smell the ocean, taste the red clams, remember drifting in soft salty waves, and smiling with the little girl with the jet black curls.
I can’t wait to go back.