The Three Eras of Christmas

Under the Sun, the Letters of Bruce Chatwin

I think the first Chatwin book I read was The Vice-Roy of Ouidah, a long time ago; I liked it, but it didn't impress me much. It was In Patagonia that captivated me, and then I read everything by him I found, and liked him more and more. Somehow, there's something about Bruce Chatwin - both his writing and himself - that I felt extremely drawn to; some intrinsic characteristic I felt identified with and spoke to my own inner self. I wouldn't know how to define it, and there's a lot about him totally different from me, and a few qualities I actively dislike, but still there's something about Chatwin... After all, it was not by chance I adopted the word chatwinesque, that I first read in the Susannah Clapp biography of Chatwin, and named my blog What Am I Doing Here, the title of one of his collections of texts.

Maybe it's something about the way he sees the world, his permanent need for escape, his restlessness, his ironic humor, his esthetics, his restrained and elegant writing, his insatiable appetite for all kinds of knowledge, his eclecticism, his capacity to dream about places and cultures that made his observations and writings about them so enlightening and interesting... It was probably a combination of all that.

So, I was curious to read this collection of his letters, and they were indeed interesting to read. A lot of it had been quoted in his biography by Nicholas Shakespeare. Once again I disliked some of his personality traits - the maniac side, the thoughtlessness towards others, the snobbishness - but felt identified with other of his characteristics - his endless curiosity, his lust for life, his sense of humor. Somehow I felt some of the comments by his widow sounded like a late settling of accounts, which seem a little cheap. He may have been far from perfect, and probably he was a terrible person to live with, but he wrote wonderful books like In Patagonia, The Songlines, and lots of great essays like the ones collected in What Am I Doing Here, and that's more than we can say about most of people / writers.

Why wonder? [...] Why do I become restless after a single month in a single place, unbearable after two? (I am, I admit, a bad case.) [...] Wondering may settle some of my natural curiosity and my urge to explore, but then I am tugged back by a longing for home. I have a compulsion to wonder and a compulsion to return - a homing instinct like a migrating bird.

Last couple of days in Madagascar - Ambohimanga and goodbye to Tana

After a couple of days relaxing at Nosy Be, I flew back to Tana. The last two days in Madagascar were spent in a visit to Ambohimanga and strolling and shopping for souvenirs.

Ambohimanga is one of the sacred hills on the Antananarive plateau, the highest and most sacred of them all, the ancient capital of the Merina kingdom, under which the island was unified in the 18th century. These days, it’s a small village on top of the only hill that still keeps its ancient forest in the plateau (it was sacred, so the trees escaped the deforestation that consumed the neighboring country to produce coal), with the ancient fortified palace precincts, a UNESCO world heritage site. There were several doors in the ancient wall, one can see one of them today, and the heavy circular stone that used to close it, moved by 40 slaves. Before entering the palace precinct, one sees the place of sacrifices to the ancestors’ spirits, a flat stone by a huge ficus tree. The main Malagasy religion is still animism, and there are still frequent sacrifices there: chicken, ducks, zebus in special occasions, and several zebu skulls hang on the tree.

I hired a licensed guide, a short woman named Emma, that took me for the tour of the site, telling the stories of the place in her accented French – never have I heard so many times the word “sacré”. In Ambohimanga, literally everything is sacré. Theprecinct is an impressively beautiful place, with an incredible view over the plateau.

First, there are the ancient ficus trees (“l’arbre sacré!”), one of them surrounded by 12 stones, representing the king and his 12 wives (“douze, le numéro sacré!”), and the enclosure where the zebus are kept and fed before being sacrificed. Then, the king’s palace (king Andriambelomasina, and yes, she could say this word without hesitation), a modest wooden building (“c’était du luxe quand même!”), with pillars of huge palisanders (“le bois pour les rois – sacré!”); one cannot take pictures of the interior (“c’est sacré!”), where the king’s bed is by the eastern wall (“où le soleil se lève, c’est le côté sacré!”), and the king used to be perched on the ceiling while giving audience, so he wouldn’t be seen to be protected from potential attacks and would answer petitions by throwing pebbles from above, while the favorite wife entertained the guests. One should leave the palace walking backwards so one wouldn’t turn his back on the king – “mais vous pouvez sortir comme vous voulez”.

Next to the king’s palace, there’s the queen’s summer palace, a 19th century wooden building, a kind of European villa, built for the infamous queen Ranavalonna I, whose main residence was the “palais de la reine” in Tana. Small but comfortable, it’s a curious house, with the dining-room with a runaway trapdoor and cupboards with mirrors so she could watch if anyone would try to poison her, and her portraits in Victorian attire, on a stool to look taller (“elle avait seulemant 1.40m”) and heavily powdered (“elle voulait être blanche… comme Michael Jackson!”). She had lots of lovers (“meme des esclaves!”) and her son was deposed because suspected of not being of royal blood (“il est né 14 mois après la mort du roi”).

Up a few steps from the palaces, there are the royal tomb, and then the sacred pools, where the king had his annual sacred bath, with rain water carried by 40 virgins. There was a special staircase for the king, through a door crowned by a sculpted ficus leaf – “la feuille sacrée.

I loved Ambohimanga (the name means ”beautiful hill”), and after leaving Emma – who, in her dignified poise, was probably not much different from Ranavalonna – wondered in the woods watching the breathtaking view. Sacred places, here or anywhere else, are not chosen randomly; there’s always something impressive about them.

On my last day, I wondered through the city, feeling somewhat familiar with it, stopping for coffee at the Café de la Gare, having a drink with a new acquaintance, and buying some souvenirs. Chocolates, t-shirts, and beautiful wooden handicraft at the Marché de la Digue – a few sculptures and masks and a chess set.

So, all in all, it was quite a trip. Nature, culture, food and rest, and a lot of time by myself, something I hadn’t noticed how much I missed until enjoying it.

L'Oeuvre, by Emile Zola

This was one of the few Rougon-Macquart novels I hadn't read. I started reading them as a teenager, with Nana and Germinal, and was always impressed by Zola's powerful writing. These novels are a true fresco of the French society under the Second Empire, and of human nature in general, each one dealing with a particular theme - provincial politics in La Fortune des Rougons and La Conquête de Plassans, urban speculation in La Curée, proletarian work in Germinal, department stores in Au Bonheur des Dames, church hypocrisy in La Faute de l'Abbé Mouret, alcoholism in L'Assomoir, etc etc... This time, the theme is art and creativity, and once more the tone is deeply pessimistic; one gets depressed reading the hopeless struggle and the ineluctable descent of Claude Lantier, the génie manqué, as when reading the appalling narrative of Gervaise's abasement by drinking in L'Assomoir, one of the most distressful books I ever read. One wonders why he was so pessimistic about the art scene of the Impressionism, that was such a happy period in art, so lively and new, but I guess it had to do with the ensemble of his work, the general disenchantment with human nature and society that he experienced. And it's actually quite understandable; when I read his books, I can't help but seeing the depiction of my own country's present society, so vividly described in books like La Curée. It's depressing, but totally true.

Madagascar - a road trip and idling at Nosy Be

From Ankarana, I went by road to Ankify, to take the boat to the Island of Nosy Be. It was a most beautiful drive, along valleys and fields of red-brown earth, cocoa, cashew and ylang-ylang trees, vendors on the side of the road, where I bought some tasty cashew nuts. But it was also a grim taste of Malagasy roads: stretches of good road and stretches of appalling potholes, with young people and kids shoveling gravel into the holes and waiting for some money from the drivers. Also, in every village, people hammering stones to make gravel, that will be eventually bought by some factories. Near Ambilobe, a bridge had collapsed under a heavy truck a month ago, and they diverted the road so we passed the river over pebbles – the passengers of the taxi-brousses had to step out and cross on foot, with water to their ankles, so the vehicle would be lighter – but what about when the rains come in a few weeks? And this is the main road in the North of the country… And Patrick kept saying: “Les Malgaches, ça n’existe pas!”, as he did when, in Diego Suárez, he had shown me a hospital built with Chinese money a few years before (one of several in the country) that stood completely empty, with not even basic furniture.

At Ankify, I took a speed boat to Nosy Be, where I spent two days in lazy idleness at the beach, swimming, reading and eating. The beach is beautiful, the sea water warm. The touristy village of Abitaloaka, near my hotel, featured a lot of old European guys with young Malagasy girls, which was a little disheartening. I’m sure the snorkeling and diving at Nosy Be must be wonderful, but I just idled on the beach and read, resting from the hikes of previous days.

Reborn - Early Diaries 1947-1963, by Susan Sontag

Just finished Reborn; it has interesting parts, but it was never able to captivate me for more than brief moments. Maybe because Susan Sontag takes herself too seriously and lacks a sense of humor, or because she's too self-centered, or due to her obstinate goal of building a self instead of just being herself - although that can be quite worthwhile - or because of a number of small indefinable things. I was never able to sympathize / empathize with her for more than brief moments, and that's an insurmountable obstacle to like diaries or correspondences. And the writing didn't help - in a raw state, her writing was rather plain.

But yet there are passages that touched me, like:

From this, a will to failure that often my talents frustrate. So then I devalue my successes (fellowships, the novel, jobs). These become unreal to me. I feel I am masquerading, pretending.

Aristotle is right: happiness is not to be aimed at; it is a by-product of activity aimed at -

One of the main (social) functions of a journal or diary is precisely to be read furtively by other people, the people (like parents + lovers) about whom one has been cruelly honest only in the journal.

Why is writing important? Mainly, out of egotism, I suppose. Because I want to be that persona, a writer, and not because there is something I must say.

All in all, I'm not sure if I want to read the other two volumes of her diaries.

Northern Madagascar - Montagne d'Ambre, the Tsingy Rouges and Ankarana

The distance between Sambava and Diego Suárez is just 160 km, but I had booked a place on the weekly flight, after having read on the internet several accounts of 12 to 18 hours land trips. So far, my experience of Madagascar roads hadn’t been bad – the roads from Antananarive to Anzojorobe and from Sambava to Marojejy were pretty normal – but more on Madagascar roads later.

Upon landing in Diego, I was greeted by Patrick, a cheerful 57-year-old Malagasy that would be my guide for the next few days (I had booked with Evasions sans Frontières). Diego Suárez is a small uninteresting town over a beautiful bay; I just went there to pay the agency, then off to the Park Montagne d’Ambre. There, a quiet hike through a forest much tamer than Marojejy, where I saw a number of beautiful trees, some lemurs, the Brookesia (the smallest chameleon in the world, just a couple of cm long), several birds and mongooses, and the Europlatus, a gecko deservedly known as the “king of camouflage”. There is a sacred lake – as usual – where people leave offers to the spirits of the ancestors, like money and bottles of wine. The Montagne d’Ambre is a peaceful place, the source of all the water used in the Diego region.

I slept at the Nature Lodge, near Joffreville, a small quasi-ghost town once inhabited by people from Reunion that left in the early 70s, and the next day I visited the Tsingy Rouges, a most amazing place reached by a bumpy dirt road. It’s an eerie place, of extra-terrestrial beauty, where the erosion created strange shapes from the red limestone cliffs and the water runs over red and ocher sands.

Then I went to Park Ankarana, another stunning place. Goulam Lodge, inside the park, was a very basic lodging – no running water, 2 hours of electric power each day, but I’m experienced with bucket showers so I managed. And Ankarana was really worthwhile, I had two days of splendid hiking. The park guide, Joaquim, was an intelligent and witty humored young guy, we talked a lot while walking, and talking to him, and Patrick and a couple of other local guys, was interesting and instructive: they are intelligent people, angry about their corrupt government, the permanent African neglect and inefficiency, trying to get by in rough circumstances. As for the nature at Ankarana: chameleons, lemurs, birds, dry savanna and green forest, bat caves with stalagmites and ancient Antakarana tombs, and the amazing tsingys, black and sharp-edged this time but no less eerie. And walking miles and miles conveys a great feeling of physical bliss, while the mind wonders… Ankarana was a really great experience.

Madagascar - Sambava and Marojejy

Air Madagascar is notoriously known for its frequente delays and cancellations, but my flight to Sambava was right on time (as was later my flight from Sambava to Diego Suarez, and the flight from Nosy Be to Tana was just 30 minutes late, so I cannot complain!). It’s only a 1 hour flight from Tana to Sambava, and a short taxi ride took me to the Orchidea Beach 2 Hot el, a very nice hotel by the beach I had booked from Lisbon. My first view of the Indian Ocean, just outside my bedroom.

So I changed into my swim trunks and had my first dip in the ocean. Pleasantly warm water, they say there are riptides and sharks, so no swimming offshore. It was Sunday, and as time passed, the beach became filled with locals – I was the only Caucasian around. Lots of people came to the beach, but only kids were bathing, the rest were strolling and chatting, as you would see in Lisbon mall. And a chameleon fell from a tree on the sand, eliciting giggles from two pretty girls sitting next to me… My first chameleon in Madagascar!

I had dinner in a local small restaurant, a tasty mine sao with THB (Three Horses Beer, the most common beer in the country); there was a party celebrating a football match, and I got lost on my way back to the hotel, and a nice man drove me there in a packed Renault 4 with his wife and four children…

I met a nice young French couple at the hotel that was also heading to Park Marojejy, so we went there together. The car that took us was an old Renault, whose speedometer needle didn’t move and whose windows were stuck – “nous n’avons pas d’argent pour voitures neufs à Madagascar!” – but it got us there, through a beautiful vanilla-scented country.

From the Park bureau, where we hired our guide, to the park entrance, at the foot of the Marojejy mountain, it’s a 9 km hike. It’s a beautiful walk, we passed two villages, poor houses made of bamboo, people grinding cassava and washing clothes in the river, vanilla drying in the sun, lots of smiling children hailing us with “salaam, vasaha!”. The valley was really beautiful, and it was sunny and hot, so we reached the park tired and drenched in sweat (I kept thinking: these guys must think Europeans are crazy, having nice comfortable houses and coming here to do forced marches in the sun!).

Entering the park, the trees were a welcoming shade. But there were also the mosquitoes who, not knowing they should be repelled by our mosquito repellents, had a great time feeding on our calves. But the hike was great, the rainforest beautiful, with birds, millipedes and lemurs, and a refreshing dip in a cool lake with a cascade. We reached the 1st camp, where we stayed for the night, sharing a tuna and pasta dinner cooked on a charcoal stove and sleeping in the small bungalows, listening to the soft rain that fell during the night. Our guide was a young guy, with a somewhat unpleasant smell, but funny and very proud of his English speaking skills.

The next morning, after a summary wash and a summary breakfast, we hiked up the mountain to the second camp. The rainforest at Marojejy is incredibly beautiful and wild; we spotted some lemurs, several beautiful birds and lots of huge millipedes. The second camp is in a stunning place, by a cascade with amazing views over the mountains. I had to pull a couple of leeches from my legs… It’s really true about their anti-clotting properties, the blood flowed extremely smoothly. Then we headed on our search for the silky sifaka, the white lemur we can only find in this park.

It was quite an epic search! We started up the track to camp 3, which is a really steep climb. And, after about 1 km, we went off the trail into the jungle. And THAT was quite an experience! Crawling through roots and lianas, muddy ground, using hands and feet, sometimes I asked myself “what the hell am I doing here?”, my glasses sliding with the sweat… But at the same time, it was exhilarating, the walk (or crawl…) through sheer wild nature. After despairing to see the elusive silky sifakas, there they were, a whole family, idling in the trees, complete with a baby playing. It was a moment of pure delight, well worth the trouble to get there. We just stared at them for a long time, feeling happy and accomplished.

After the no-tracks-jungle, the trail back to the camp was extremely easy. And we were even rewarded with a group of albiphonse lemurs crossing the trail, moving gracefully above our heads. It was a peaceful hike back to the villages, passing some nice zebus grazing – I touched a zebu calf, and his fur was surprisingly soft. Tired but happy, we drove back to Sambava. Marojejy will always remain in my mind as a magical place.