Madagascar
On paper, there were a lot of reasons to support leaving on a mad adventure in early 2020. Christmas was rough, to put it lightly, and my head needed a break away from the everyday reminders my university town brought with it. For my degree, we were also expected to complete a ‘switchboard’ semester which takes the form of an internship, exchange or own project - basically something that wasn’t what we normally do. The idea of course is to expand our skillset and make sure we don’t all leave school as *those* art kids, but rather functional professionals (I use both words lightly) who have some basis to build on post uni.
Interning with a design agency or pitching up to another school didn’t quite fit right for me, but a few months before the deadline I was starting to worry about what it was I wanted to do. I thought about practicality, about skills I’d like to have for the future and other ‘useful’ directions to point myself in. Being an optimist however (and quite the dreamer) a few childhood wonder’s slipped in alongside these rational suggestions. As a kid, I’d loved nature documentaries to the point of obsession. This was an addiction which stuck with me to adulthood and now lead me to the idea of travelling somewhere bonkers and learning to scuba dive so I could join a film team underwater for a Blue Planet project. It might sound nuts from the outside, but for me it seemed straightforward enough.
With the idea set in my mind, organisation was surprisingly simple. I’d join a science volunteer group first to learn the dive skills and conservation I’d need to be functional in the water, and add the camera and filming sections when I was comfortable in neutral buoyancy.
On March 1st, I set off for Nosy Be; a small island off the north-west coast of Madagascar’s central island. In theory, I would stay there for three months or so and return with a happy head and a lot of new mad skills. In practice however, the appearance of a certain virus made everything a bit more of a challenge. I stayed in Africa for five weeks before being emergency evacuated in a mad two day escape lead by some incredible embassy officials and local ambassadors. The stories I came back with, though not quite what I was hoping for, still taught me a lot - and arguably more life skills than the original plan would’ve should the world have run smoothly.
It’s fair to say I wrote a lot while away. I’m inherently social and restricting the normal level of expected chatter can go two ways in my head so processing is a necessity some way or another. Keeping a blog and other records of the days was a substitute for late night teas and talks when both were suddenly far away. Though now offline, all articles and pieces are saved and open to be read on request. Feel free to send a message if you’d like to see them in full. Below are a series of extracts from some of the most important days. ‘Highlights’ isn’t the right term as not every memory recorded was positive, but all had lessons attached and were important in their own right.
01
Africa never felt too far from home, largely due to spending mismatched sections of my early childhood there while my parents worked on various projects. Madagascar was no different in this, and very quickly became home with the same level of vibrancy - people and culture especially - that I know and love of the continent.
My time on island was split between two main locations; Ambalahonko, a beach-side treehouse nestled between surrounding primary jungle which overlooked the home reef and ‘Community’, the equally mad shared house in the local town of Hell Ville. Both had their own charms, wonder and challenges that came with the environments. Most of my time was spent by - or rather in - the ocean though Hell Ville was certainly loud and bright enough to leave just as much of an impression.
As a self-confirmed over thinker I had a relatively clear map in my mind of the mental traps I would need to protect myself from. Making sure I found my feet and connected was the best safety net I could give myself, and this meant meeting a lot of people wherever I could. It’s a strange wonder having the biggest worry being isolation as it forces a sense of hyper socialising that clicks so well for me. I’d talk with everyone I saw in any language we could both manage. Questionable French, the few words of Malagasy I’d been taught, frantic hand signs and drawings in sand. I’d never had any issues making friends, but it was still reassuring to be reminded that here would be no different.
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02
The transfer to camp was an hour or so by boat, varying mainly due to how many people were crammed in while also running on true ‘Africa time’ - be there at 12 but don’t expect to be leaving according to any kind of schedule. 10,000 for a boat ride (2.42 EUR). My first sight of camp was pretty exciting, though cut short by the challenge of getting my rucksack to shore (dry was the tricky bit) . The remainder of my first day was focused around meeting the rest of the staff and volunteers, finding any possible dry spot to sleep (tail end of rainy season meant a lot of storms passing through) and getting to grips with how things ran in a community where I was the new kid again - it felt a lot like high school those first few days, finding a place when everyone is already so close is always anxious for me. Throw in a whole new continent and there was more than a lot to wrap my head around.
It also hadn’t occurred to me that i’d need to learn how to be relaxed, and particularly strange when the idea of relaxation being an improvable skill was thrown in. With the last few months being so intensely busy, down time hadn’t been something i’d even thought about; now though I’d have to effectively re-learn how to not be in a constant panic. I’d learn almost immediately that there was a lot of freetime on camp. A lot a lot. Most folks happily sit in a hammock and read through the day between work projects, but sitting still has never been something I was any good at. Weirdly this was kinda the hardest part of the first week. Matching my energy levels to those around me is still something I struggle with. My solution was simply to be in the water as much as possible. My first couple of free dives also reinforced how much I wanted to learn, particularly with identifying species. I desperately wanted to know the names of everything I saw, but crikey there was a lot to learn, and a fair bit of Padi theory to get through first too.
06
The surrounding protected jungle of Ambalahonko ensured my adjustment to ‘island time’ and I was quickly grateful to be an early riser in my own right. The day creatures, mainly birds and lemurs, liked to loudly announce their presence as they wake each day (around five or so) and by six, anyone close to the tree line was sure to be up. The natural alarm therefore became my cue to head to the reef before breakfast.
An hour either side of low tide was the ideal prime-time, dropping to a depth of just three metres however meant spacial awareness was crucial - especially when also navigating a camera. A short swim - or walk, depending on tide - and you were at the reef. I could easily write about it for hours on end without any difficulty. If anything, it’s more of a trouble thinking about how to recall it with any kind of justice.
Dipping below the water level would bring me somewhere different every-time, no matter how carefully I mapped it. Schools of fish hurriedly darted through the busy structures with totally certainty of their paths and routes, watching the scenes play out reminded me of rush hour madness from cityscapes more than anything. If scent was recognisable underwater, i’d be sure this coral world would be full of rich spices and tropical mixes to match the warmth and variety it emulated, the vibrancy of colours was definitely comparable to the land above. Clown fish, parrots and sweetlips clicked enthusiastically as they made their rounds. Huge spotted eagle rays gently swooped by with neon sting rays swiftly marking the lower levels as theirs. Lionfish guarded their already lethal young as moody lobsters glanced over to me with lazy interest. During every dive, often several times a day, I was reminded that above all else; I was a visitor to this place.
My last breaths would always be the longest, I’d feel my lungs fill with heat as I pushed them just a little longer. Memorising the scenes around me in as much tiny detail as I could manage, closing my eyes briefly to see if I could recall the image as well as I hoped before moving to the next.
On shore I’d have a sketchbook with crayons and markers and anything else I could find ready to litter a spread with questionably drawn fish, exaggerated features and obscure patterns. The dive officer would laugh a little as I hurriedly tried to explain how each looked while I could remember. He was the knowledge, with all the names I didn’t yet know. It’s in the noses, that’s how to best tell them apart. How thick was the stripe? Black or brown tinted? Try and remember now. In the afternoon I’d head out again to test my new words. Smiling with a regulator in your mouth is counter productive, but it’s hard not to grin when the world around you is suddenly identifiable. The mermaid in training. Everyone had a different name for me.
Farmers walked herds of zebu through the shallows in the morning, I spent plenty of time peering out from a hammock to watch them wonder past. Local kids would cross them on their way to school and most would stop to come and practice their french with me. Drawing and chatting together, qu'est que c'est? We started with colours, then fruits and other foods. The older ones would ask me questions, pourquoi il bleu? I learnt the most from the ocean, but second to that was from these morning kids.
Two girls stopped one day, seven and eight years old they told me. À quelle heure commence l'école? Not yet they insisted, later. later. Their mother was less impressed with their French skills, classes it seemed did in fact start when I thought. She escorted them every day after, but all three would smile as they passed. Ramatoa manga; the blue lady.
07
Connecting to internet after just one week away seemed like no trouble. In theory. Of course in theory, but naturally it could never have been that simple. Over two hundred messages flooded in crashing my phone immediately. What had happened? I scrambled to restart it, staring impatiently at the loading logo as my coffee cooled. And then, it flashed up. Not one by one as i’d hoped, but all at once. Suddenly the world had stopped.
Corona. Covid-19. The invisible enemy. A lethal virus.
We’ve been sent home. Uni’s closed forever. Your dad is safe. My flight’s been cancelled, I think i’m stuck here. There’s no flour in the shops. My grandma is sick. I’m not allowed to see my brother.
Are you safe?
When are you coming home?
Are you safe?
When are you coming home?
Are you safe?
When are you coming home?
Are you safe?
When are you coming home?
Are you safe?
When are you coming home?
Are you safe?
When are you coming home?
Are you safe?
When are you coming home?
Are you safe?
When are you coming home?
In the heat of the early morning at a small road-side cafe on an African island, a faded girl cried into her coffee until she couldn’t think anymore.
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09
6:04am the Embassy officials were informed I had made the choice to stay and was willing to negotiate the risks on my own. Thanking them for their help and guidance, I signed off what was supposedly my final email.
6:31 I head out for my morning reef survey. Banana pancakes with fresh passion fruit and honey are waiting for me when I come home, the sun heats the ocean off me leaving a soft layer of salt across my lips.
7:18am The British ambassador would like to call you immediately, shall I put him through?
7:55am … you are choosing to be in one of the least prepared places worldwide… there’s no help coming…. we can’t save you if you don’t leave right now…. get out…
8:06am
8:22am
9:41am. Victor organises a boat to get me to Hell Ville to meet transport to the airline office.
The next day or so feels a jumbled mess of blurry memories. Offices and paperwork with thousands of Malagasy Ariary being frantically wired across to each new desk. A taxi to the long table of PPE clad officers, waiting nervously to prick my fingers in turn. I thought about how gentle the nurse was a week previously when I went in to check my Malaria was treated. These were quick-trained volunteers. I didn’t want these to be the last Malagasy people I met.
I thought that the first flight was full of anxiety, Tana of course was worse. I kicked myself for not expecting as much. Hundreds of European’s waiting for the last flight out of Madagascar. Face masks can only hide so much. 500 pairs of anxious eyes surrounded each of us, unsure who to trust. Who to avoid. Who was a carrier here? We knew the statistics, someone would be infected by now. It was almost silent. You could’ve tasted the fear.
I closed my eyes tight to find Paris waiting to meet me as they opened. 5am felt so silent in an abandoned airport. I wouldn’t be home for another 11h, and I knew already it would take three times that for the realisation to settle. Africa was long behind me, but I would’ve sworn my lips still tasted the last of the ocean salt from the morning before.
Everyone was thanked, the embassy celebrated the success of rescuing the stranded kids as I squeezed my eyes tight to feel the ocean spray blow over from Nosy Kumba. Rationality is an odd thing when you’re adjusting so fast. I’m no idiot, nor am I a conspiracist; but beyond that I was certain someone had swapped my mattress out. It took four nights before I finally slept in bed. Another six days for shoes to feel less foreign. I caught myself thanking light switches for being there as I tried to find my place in the walls I couldn’t leave. As I made peace with my new confinements, the world outside fought to find footing with a virus no one could see. April was the strangest i’d lived through, I hoped it would stay as the peak of uncertainty.