Diego and The Dance of The Marionettes

I realise that I have let my blogs slip since I left Tana and also wander away from the simple description of my life here. This is a shame when every day I find this country more enchanting and mysterious than the last. I will attempt to rectify this by giving you a brief account of my days in Diego, where I find myself comfortable and relaxed and quickly submitting to the lazy routine of coastal life.

Me and the girls on my last night in Tana. Moroccan theme and hubble-bubble

 In the morning I raise myself at a hassle free 9am. I have learned by experience that if I attempt to start my days at work earlier than this I am simply subjecting myself to an hour or more’s wait in a stuffy, airless office, sweating and reading my book until my counterpart finally arrives at work. Nowadays, therefore, I rarely arrive at offices or rendezvous before 10am, and even then I am invariably the first person there. Nevertheless 9am is a luxurious waking time for me after the 4am rousing of Akany. When I wake I shower, with the water trickling out of the shower-head on the coldest setting, and throw all the windows and doors open to let in the morning air and replace the humid weight of the night, for although I long to sleep with the windows open it is neither secure, nor a good strategy in my perpetual war with the mosquitos. I then dress in relatively casual clothes, light and immodest enough to get me through the afternoon heat, and jump into a tuk tuk with my bag.

There follows two to three hours or frenzied work, meeting ministers, representatives, judges, bank managers or estate agents until midday when the whole town of Diego Suarez retreats into itself and sleeps through the worst of the heat. This gives me 3 hours (from 12-3pm) to kill in town before I am able to continue work. This time is usually spent through one hour of reading at a local outdoor bar/café where I order a large bottle of fizzy water from the freezer, followed by an extended lunch at one of my regular cantinas where the staff have grown used to me ordering in bad French a plate of curried fish or prawns, crab or squid with plain rice and a soft drink served in an antiquated glass bottle with a straw in it. I sit alone and eat my food slowly, savouring the feeling of the heavy glass bottle against my sweaty palms as condensation collects in a ring on the table. Then I order the bill and pay and continue to wait for 3pm to arrive. After I have paid the staff know I will not be requiring them to serve me any more and they politely ignore me, going about clearing the tables and prepping for dinner service. Sometimes they even take turns to leave and go home and take a refreshing shower while I continue to watch the world go by and read my books.

At 3pm I return to my work, struggling to forge ahead in the heat of the afternoon finding it hard to concentrate and hearing my French deteriorating. Harder still is it to face the fact that my colleagues are now refreshed and newly showered after their naps at home while I remain in the same clothes, sticky and exhausted by the heat, embarrassed by my appearance and eager to finish for the day. In the early evening I return to the hotel, take a much-needed shower and head to the roof where I sit in the breeze using the Wi-Fi to work on my paperwork, the website and foreign correspondence. At the end of these days I often retire to my room clasping a cold bottle of water, without dinner and watch an episode of a well-loved TV show, wrapped in a sarong with all the doors and windows open and the fan going full pelt, waiting for dusk.

I fall asleep to the sounds of the street, the tuk tuks, the hawkers, the babble of conversation from the nearby rooftops where people congregate seeking the relief of the sea breezes that blow above the city.

A Malagasy band we went to see in Tana

On the weekends I sleep. A lot. More than I ever have in all my life. In the mornings I head out onto the roof and fiddle with some little aspect of the website or budget that has been nagging at me during the week, but which I haven’t had the energy, or concentration, to attend to. I treat myself to a cup of bitter Malagasy tea and one teaspoon full of cane sugar, sometimes flavoured with a hint of local vanilla given off by a whole pod left infusing in the bowl. I eat a light lunch, perhaps a fruit salad or a small bowl of Chinese soup and take a siesta till early evening.

This is my opportunity to wander aimlessly, soaking up the atmosphere of Madagascar through people-watching and general proximity; a luxury I was denied in Tana due to its break-neck speed living and deteriorating security. At around 18:00 I choose a place to eat with tables on the street and I sit for an hour or so and watch the world go by. Then I progress down the main street, café by café, hour by hour, enjoying a fresh juice or ice-water at each establishment before moving on, never outstaying my welcome or poaching a table from potential diners. Eventually, between 21:30 and 22:00 I arrive at Vahinee, a bar that spills out onto the streets and is the hub of weekend activity here. I order a coconut juice, served in its husk with the top lopped off and a straw sticking out. At Vahinee they keep the coconuts in the fridge so that when you get it the condensation is already dripping down the sides and the milk inside is like refreshing nectar from heaven and gives you a brain freeze if you drink it too fast.

My inner child has never been able to resist this simple fare. I know that it is obvious that fresh coconut juice should be served in its husk. I mean why decant something that comes served in its own, purpose built receptacle. And yet I cannot deny the thrill I get as I sit in the heat, invisible in the darkness and sip through my straw from the giant green ball, imagining myself reclining on the beach being fanned by minions. I love coconut juice and it is my humble opinion that it tastes 10 times better when consumed from the fruit itself than by any other means. And putting them in the fridge is an act of genius that makes me want to cry.

Me and my friend at Vahinee with our coconuts

It is in this position, reclining on my plastic chair, shoes lying on the pavement that I allow myself to melt into the darkness, lulled by the live Malagasy music offered up in most bars on the weekends, watching the women, so beautiful and joyous, dancing and clapping and singing along to the African beats, the town cradled deep into the night by the wonder of the Indian Ocean.

I usually remain in here, being happily ignored by the other patrons, the strange Vaza alone in the corner drinking juice and reading an English book, or watching the dancing until around midnight, when I flag down a tuk tuk and head back home. My repose is occasionally pleasantly interrupted by a Malagasy woman who coaxes me out to dance with them, delighted by my very poor efforts to replicate their movements, or when one of the few ex-pats who recognise me as a regular feature comes over to enquire after the project and introduce me to their friends and colleagues. I admit though, that under the hum of the music and after an exhausting week my French is laboured and I usually keep these interactions bright and short, so I can return to my happy oblivion.

However, my reprieve was interrupted this past Friday by something altogether more magical. I was sitting enjoying a fresh yogurt and coconut with a French psychologist I had met earlier in the week who is here on holiday when I noticed a huge shadow pass over the tables to my left. When I glanced up I was greeted by the sight of a giant marionette, perhaps 20 feet tall, dressed in traditional clothes, slowly stalking down the street. He appeared to be peeking down side alleys and was being followed by his handlers. He came to the bar eventually and danced along with the band and took turns greeting people until he finally came to rest on a special table just beyond the awning. Recognising some of the handlers I went over to ask what this was all about. Cleo, a local theatre teacher who works with disadvantaged children, told me it was a local tradition and the marionette was, in fact, part of a pair. What we were watching was the husband wandering the city at night looking for his lost love. The next night, she informed me, I would be able to see his counterpart, Monique, also searching the city at night for her husband. Then on the 5^th of April they would search again, the star-crossed lovers starting their search from opposite sides of town, and they would reunite at that very intersection and dance together in the moonlight.

Monique dancing with her crew at Vahinee

 I did indeed return the next night to meet Monique and dance with her as she searched for her husband, and I shall be there the night of the 5^th when they are reunited. This whole festival struck me as haunting somehow. The workmanship on the marionettes is impressive and the puppet master displays serious skill as he manipulates the giants in their dances. And yet, rather that taking place in the day, with dozens of families lining the streets and children aiding in the hunt, as one would imagine of such a tradition, the marionettes are only brought out at nigh (it was almost midnight when I saw them both). They also appear unannounced without music or fanfare and if you were not paying attention they would be able to slide past you in the shadow of the city. The marionettes are accompanied by a mere handful or craftsmen and minders, ten at most, who slide silently behind them as they search. It is only at the intersection of Vahinee when the music spills into the street and the marionettes are invited to dance that the crew begins clapping and shouting to encourage the ballet of the puppet as it mourns its lost love.

I was lucky to have seen them and was the only non-crew member on both nights to follow the marionettes back toward their home, waving goodbye when they left the main street and continued on alone into the night. And so it is here is Madagascar. The things you wait for, anticipate, chase after are often wondrous and awe-inspiring, and yet it is those small wonders which crawl out at you from the shadows, or alight silently and unannounced in your lap that leave you with the sense of magic and mystery in which this island is steeped. Long may you keep your secrets Madagascar, and long may I have the pleasure of uncovering them slowly, intermittently, over time- each one a hidden gift, an experience I treasure and consider to be mine alone. I hope many others feel this way too as they forge their own relationship with this vast, wild and still relatively undiscovered paradise.