Antipode – Chapter 14
The New Hotel
Antipode was originally published in 2001. Here is where we started—with the Introduction. And here are all of the chapters posted thus far.
As my days turned in upon themselves, the rest of the world spun forward, recklessly. Back in the States, a plan to bring luxury to Maroantsetra had long been in the works, and by April of 1997, the plan was complete. Maroantsetra gives access to the natural wonders of the Masoala peninsula and Nosy Mangabe, but this town is not for the Western faint of heart. There were two tiny but impossibly cheap pensions in town, sporting flea-ridden straw beds, chickens, and no privacy. There was the Motel Coco Beach, a quiet place, mostly clean but never luxurious, falling slowly into disrepair. And for intrepid researchers, there was a room at Projet Masoala, replete with the noises and smells of town, and a dank mosquito-filled bathroom.
Then the new hotel arrived. The brainchild of a woman who runs what was until very recently the only travel agency giving reliable service to Madagascar from the States, the new hotel was expected to capitalize on a future influx of tourists to the region. Indeed, Monique, the woman behind both the travel agency and the hotel, had begun planning organized tours from the States, thus insuring that the hotel would receive business. The problem remained, though, that aside from the new hotel, there were essentially no services in the region. Twin Otters still landed only twice a week on the decrepit runway, after bouncing through the air from Tana. There was little to buy or eat in town; nothing for a palate requiring subtle or varied tastes. And the two private motor boats that would take people out to Nosy Mangabe or the Masoala, though not expensive by tourist standards, ran on third world schedules, with little deference to the expectations of tourists only in the region for two or three days.
In March, before the new hotel officially opened, Jessica’s parents came for a visit. Hearing that an important UN diplomat was arriving in town, Monique opened her doors early. The Relais de Masoala was proud to welcome as its first guests Peter and Ros Metcalf. Jessica was excited to see her parents, and though I protested weakly at first, I accompanied the three of them to the new hotel, welcoming a brief respite from the endless days on Nosy Mangabe.
Situated well out of town, thus free from the noises of children and chickens, from the dust and the dogs, the Relais is a picture of serene escapism. On the edge of the bay, there are views of Nosy Mangabe, and of the sporadic flow of spice boats. Coming down the long private drive, itself already rutted with the rain, off the main, badly damaged dirt road, one first arrives at the central building. This is a large, one story structure sporting a few large rooms, including a kitchen and dining room, with a tiled open-air patio. Everything gives the impression of utter cleanliness. Plaster walls are a bright white. Nothing is constructed of plant material, though just outside of the Relais property, all of the dwellings are tiny shacks with walls of bamboo and roofs of thatched leaves. At the Relais, the architecture mimics reliance on native materials, but this is just a façade. Everything is under control.
From the main building, sandy paths emerge, tentacle like, leading to several bungalows, separated by improbable expanses of organized green, grass kept in check. Each bungalow has its own lacquered wooden verandah, looking out to the bay, and to the big blue island. Entering, one finds a world of exquisite cleanliness, surfaces entirely of lacquered wood, gauzy white crepe billowing in the slight breeze. Two beds—real, first world beds—are hung with immaculate white mosquito nets, soft and filmy. The linens are smooth, bright, white. At the windows are hung more dancing white, swaying back and forth with the wind, the rustling of palm leaves barely audible. Those trees meticulously planned and planted, just so, to bear down slightly but not ominously, providing an illusion of tropical life.
The bathroom is a coup de grace. After months of life in a tent, three items stand out. A flush toilet, clean, functional, with a seat, and no standing water on the floor. Purest white sinks and counters of…granite? Marble? Immaculate, perfectly flat, cool. And, most astounding, a wall of mirrors. I almost did not recognize myself. Living without a mirror for months, you nearly forget the desire to assess yourself daily. Whatever image I am presenting to Jessica, to the conservation agents, to the naked sailors, to my frogs, that is an image that they must interface with, but not me. I am inside this visage, not responsible for it. Suddenly I knew, again, my face, my body, from the outside. Immediately drawn in, almost as quickly wishing it gone—oh, it was easier without the reflection, without that knowledge. But once attained, it is not returnable and, living with a mirror again for those three days, unable to walk into that austere bathroom without facing it, I came to depend upon it again. Try walking into a public sphere, or indeed starting any day, without once glancing in a mirror. It is an easy, comfortable habit to lose, in the rainforest, a world without human expectation. But when the mirror is again an option, it is impossible to turn down.
Nothing is coarse or loud in the world of the Relais. There is nothing to suggest dirt or grime, or the lives lived just outside the boundaries of this fantasy realm. Those lives are explicitly kept at bay.
The people living those lives are brought in as the help. They look on in utter bewilderment at this hotel, and though there is a thin veneer of sophisticated luxury on the stuff of the hotel, that shell cracked whenever service came on the scene. Local, rural Malagasy have no reason to understand what waitstaff are supposed to do, and Monique made it even more difficult by demanding that they do everything as French as possible.
On our first night at the Relais, we had drinks on the patio, gazing out to sea, while pretty young Malagasy women dressed up as French maids hovered nervously nearby. We moved on to dinner with no decrease in the nervous energy, as the staff perpetually peered around corners at us, looking fearful. We were not given menus, nor offered a choice of meals. Instead, after a long pause, Ros and Peter were delivered large plates with a handful of sad looking pommes frites, and undecorated, cold hamburgers. After about ten minutes, the waitstaff arrived again, bearing four large plates of buttered pasta, each with a slab of overdone duck in the middle.
“There’s been a mistake,” they said. “These are for you.” They took the hamburgers and backed away.
“I understand that Monique is arranging for tours of blue-hairs from southern California to begin arriving soon,” said Ros, looking around at the scared would-be French maids peering from around corners, then back to her plate of rumpled food. “I can’t imagine everything will be running smoothly enough for sheltered old ladies any time soon.” Ros, who, with her husband, has lived all over the world, and endured all range of indignities, was absolutely right. But she didn’t know all that Monique had up her sleeve.
On Easter Sunday, Monique arranged an excursion for us, and we spent the day on a small island inhabited by eighty people. We were told that it was rich with chameleons and lemurs, partially cultivated around the perimeter, in manioc, vanilla, cloves, cinnamon. Monique hoped to make this the next Nosy Mangabe, a place to take her tourists, where she could continue the controlled experiment. In truth there were few trees, and the small community cultivated rice for food, not spices for export. We traveled to this small island by two long canoes, with an odd assortment of other people. Just before lunch, Monique’s plan became clear.
A beautifully appointed spread of freshly grilled tuna steaks and skewered shrimp, halved avocados and orchids, were arranged in the center of a large woven mat placed in the sand. Artful but impractical banana leaf place settings and a centerpiece of tropical fruit completed the stage. Then she placed us all, not boy-girl-boy-girl, but Malagasy-vazaha-Malagasy-vazaha, around the scene. Sternly advising us not to touch anything, Monique began taking pictures. Jessica and I tried to hide, but she would have none of it. Then it dawned on me that these pictures would be used ever after to sell exactly this spot, and the hotel, to little old tourists from California. The picture would probably be captioned with a brief explanation of who we are, as she introduced us all to each other on the boat ride here: “a UN diplomat and his wife and daughter; a local Muslim shop owner; a young researcher working on her Ph.D. on Nosy Mangabe; the most important Air Mad representative in the northeast; a vazaha teacher and her husband, from Tana; several relatives of extremely important Malagasy; a charismatic old Malagasy man, and his counterpart, the charismatic old French guy.” We had the same number of Malagasy and vazaha, and though most of us had never met before, and would not meet again, the image was one of racial and cultural unity and friendship.
I did not want to be used to sell Monique’s “adventure tourism” scheme. Her island was a farce if it was labeled any sort of intact ecosystem, and I believed her motives to be entirely financial, which is often at odds with conservation. Later in the day, on the boat ride back, Monique began talking about the web page she was setting up for the new hotel, and how these photos would be on it. There was nothing to be done.
The following day, when Jessica and I were due to return to Nosy Mangabe, and Ros and Peter were flying back to Tana, we spent a final lazy morning at the Relais. Monique approached Jessica and me, making sure that Ros and Peter were in earshot, and invited us to come stay at the hotel whenever we were in town, gratis. Ros was, as always, the perfect image of grace during this, but suitably sardonic afterwards.
Meanwhile, seemingly overnight, all of the employees had donned new duds. The men raking the paths were all sporting baggy yellow overalls; the women, previously made up to look like French maids, now wore orange and black mini-skirts, and yellow flowers in their hair. These costumes were designed, I expect, to look ethnic. Instead, they all looked like escapees from oompah-loompah land in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.
The next time we went into town, Jessica and I accepted Monique’s kind offer, and stayed at the Relais. I knew that I would not be included in such generosity were it not for Jessica, and she understood that Monique was merely trying to ingratiate herself with Ros and Peter, but we enjoyed the privilege anyway.
We entered our bungalow, expectant, ready for a relaxing day of luxury away from both our tents and town, but as I entered the bathroom, the mirrors held a surprise. Bright white circles had appeared on my shoulders, back, arms and chest, and were creeping up my face. In less than two weeks I had broken out in spots.
“What are these?” I asked Jessica, wondering vaguely if she hadn’t noticed them before. She looked surprised when I pointed them out.
“Fungus?” she hazarded. I thought her guess a good one, but decided to try to obtain a professional opinion. The good doctor, who had lectured me on the gentle demeanor of lemurs, would surely know what kind of creeping ick I had. So we headed to town.
On our way, we ran into Armand, one of the naturalist guides who was trying hard to learn English. He was with a loud Austrian tourist, blond and sturdy, who was cultivating an image of one who has seen the world, and is mildly bored by it.
“Armand,” we called to him, thinking that he, a local who spends a lot of time on Nosy Mangabe, might have encountered the spots before. “Armand, take a look at these, what do you think they are?” The Austrian, answering for Armand, said that it was sun. He, a tourist who had been in Madagascar all of a week, decided that I was foolish to worry, I had merely burnt my skin. Armand was in the unfortunate position of being employed by this bombast, so agreed with whatever proposition was put to him.
“Do you think it could be a fungus?” I asked Armand.
“Oh yes, probably,” he agreed.
“No, just the sun. It blistered and then the skin came off and these white spots were underneath,” the Austrian blustered.
“Oh yes, the sun,” agreed Armand. He was going to be of no use to us in the presence of his Austrian, so we excused ourselves to go find the doctor. This sun hypothesis made no sense in light of how much time I had already spent in the sun without spots, how tanned I was, how localized and pain-free the spots were. We left as Armand began explaining the mysterious ways of the aye-aye to the Austrian.
Carrying my two tubes of topical anti-fungal, we strolled to the doctor’s house, which is also his office. He was pleased to see us, welcomed us in and asked us for the news. Malagasy courtesy demands that all conversations begin this way.
“Inona no vaovao?” “What’s the news?”
“Tsy misy vaovao. Inona no vaovao?” “No news. What’s the news with you?”
“Tsy misy vaovao.” “No news.” Then the conversation proceeds to encompass the news.
After a few moments of small talk, in which he revealed that he had just been in Tana visiting family, he asked after us. This seemed a good opening, so Jessica said, “Well, Erika thinks she’s got mushrooms.” (In French, the same word is used for any fungus, be it edible mushrooms or mold, and my English-trained brain always hears “mushrooms.”) The good doctor’s eyes opened wide, and he came around the desk to investigate. Within seconds, he’d come to a decision.
“Yes, definitely mushrooms. It’s quite common here, actually.” He turned to Jessica, “and you don’t have it?”
“No, no,” she said.
“Oh, be careful then, for just brushing up against her,” he gestured to me, “might transmit it.” He again looked me over. “Yes, it’s mushrooms, but no big deal. Probably you got it from swimming in the sea.” Marine fungus? I was doubtful.
“Use your anti-fungals,” he advised, after investigating my medicine, “and in two weeks you should be better.” Is it just a Western affectation to be relieved once you have a name to call your condition, even though no treatment has yet begun, and you don’t even have any evidence that the diagnosis you’ve been given is true or good?
We wandered back through town slowly. Severe storms had again hit the Bay of Antongil, and life was not entirely back to normal in Maroantsetra. Several people had drowned when their pirogues capsized, as most fisher people don’t know how to swim. We saw a dead cow in the river. But it was market day, and the vendors were out, each selling their one specialty item—charcoal, fish, rice, baguettes. Troops of well-dressed young men strutted through the sandy streets. And one woman was particularly striking, utterly beautiful and coifed in an aquamarine skirt, whitest blouse, hair piled elegantly on top of her head, with lipstick and a parasol. I had never seen anyone like her in Maroantsetra before. Jessica, who was in the habit of looking down at the ground, from months watching terrestrial frogs, saw none of this. What she saw was this woman’s feet, which turned inwards, ninety degrees askew from the normal direction. The woman placed them carefully, slowly, one in front of the other as she walked. The only piece of her clothing that was not immaculate were the flip-flops she’d thrown onto her feet, made more conspicuous by the lack of attention and care. We were intensely curious about her—clearly wealthy by local standards, she had an impediment that would have made life hard and cruel for anyone born with it, especially here. When she disappeared into a shack selling cooking oil, we continued on.
Shortly we ran into Armand again, without his Austrian. We told him the diagnosis for the spots, and he seemed unfazed.
“Where are you going?” he asked, noticing that we were headed out of town, away from Projet Masoala.
“To the Relais,” I mumbled, slightly embarrassed to be staying in such luxury.
“Oh, the new hotel!” he beamed. “I think it is a wonderful thing. The other guides and I, we have been talking about it, and we think there will be more tourists now. This means more work for us.” It seemed reasonable to expect such a thing. The guides were organized, and they had agreed on set rates for a half day, a day, and a night’s work. All of the guides were to request and be paid the identical amount, so that the only competition between them for individual tourists would be based on skill. And with every dollar earned, a set percentage went to a communal pot, which was used for purchases or projects that would benefit the group. I never expected to find labor organization of the workers and by the workers in northeastern Madagascar. But among the guides, the most knowledgeable of the local people, there had been a careful analysis of what was best for them in the long run. Now they looked forward to the economic boost they hoped the Relais would bring. I only hoped they hadn’t overestimated the integrity of the vazaha who ran it.
In the still of predawn, I lay struggling with sleep in white linens, under beautifully appointed though less than effective gossamer mosquito netting. I woke into a clean white world, where all is shushed and spirited away before it can make a sound that might disturb the still to arrive guests. A boat bearing cloves, moored nearby, scents the cool early morning air. I come out to the steps of the bungalow, pale sky turning faintest blue overhead, still translucent, shades of pink and yellow near the horizon. The sun has not yet risen. Near the beach, a man with a coupe-coupe, a long handled cutting tool with a sickle blade, hacks at dead wood. It is the only sound in this stillness, except for the sounds of dripping from the palm trees, though no rain is falling. The faintest breeze causes the vertical, topmost leaf on each palm tree, the cowlick, to sway slightly, without rhythm. The sand paths connecting bungalows and dining room are raked into orderly arrays of parallel lines. Nosy Mangabe looms large across the bay, just a silhouette now, the sun coming up behind it. Frogs are determining what they will do for the day.
A large red boat bearing metal-encased stores of cloves is performing a slow and arduous about-face near shore. Finally accomplished, it moves backwards out into the bay, thrice blowing its horn to warn hapless fisher people of its approach. It will be their responsibility to get out of its way, pulling up their nets and rowing furiously before being borne down on.
The clove boat disappears behind a planted cycad, an ancient cone-bearing tree obscuring this startlingly modern vehicle, incongruous amid the motley assortment of wooden barges, small motor boats, and the myriad pirogues that make up Maroantsetra’s usual marine fleet. Out to sea, south through the Bay of Antongil, the many tiered clove boat departs, a bright behemoth on cool blue water, heading toward a cloudless horizon.
Soon it is time for breakfast, which at the Relais de Masoala is a surreal and ridiculous experience. The night before, the guests advise the waitstaff what time they would like breakfast. In the morning, at the appointed time, the guests—just the two of us, we think—wander in from our bungalow and sit down at one of the tables on the covered patio. After a few minutes, during which time we feel alone in the Universe, a charming but terrified young Malagasy woman appears, bearing a plate, on which sits three white leaf bowls, in which are three kinds of jam. A spoon rests beside each leaf bowl, delicately poised, ready to fall off. The scared young woman places the plate of jams squarely in front of Jessica, and walks off resolutely. This task, at least, is finished. One less thing to worry about. Jessica and I look at each other quizzically, then she pushes the jams toward a more central spot on the table. Shortly, the young woman appears again, with an identical plate of jams, and places it, this time with no hesitation at all, squarely in front of me. She leaves, and Jessica subtly pulls the first plate of jams back in front of her. We decide not to fiddle with anything else until all breakfast accoutrements have been revealed.
A second but equally young and terrified young woman, in identical oompah-loompah wear, comes to us bearing a bowl of sugar, with a spoon. Hesitating, she finally places it just to the left of Jessica’s plate of jam. A few moments later she returns with a second, identical, bowl of sugar, and places it just to the left of my plate of jam. Jessica and I look wide-eyed at each other, but so as not to further scare the waitstaff, do not laugh. Shortly, plates, each bearing a spoon and a knife, arrive, and are placed just out of reach of each of us, making a symmetrical if unuseful array of china on the table. We have six bowls of jam, two bowls of sugar, two knives, and eight spoons. We continue our resolution to wait.
A third but still equally scared young woman comes out bearing two white pitchers—everything, as always, is white, immaculate, un-town. These are placed between Jessica and me. I investigate, and find one half full of coffee, the other with tea. We do not yet have cups. Two or three minutes later one of the first women reappears with a small pitcher of milk. This is placed, after much confusion, at the edge of the table, where one of us is sure to knock it off. Discreetly, when nobody is around to view this act of defiance, we move it to a more secure location. Shortly thereafter, yet another large white plate with six cubes of butter on it is brought and placed just out of reach of both of us.
A previously unseen woman comes out with saucers and, positioning herself such that she has to reach in front of each of us, in turn, to put them down where she deems they belong, makes as much of a nuisance of herself as possible. Still, the appearance of saucers is promising. Perhaps cups, for the coffee and tea, are forthcoming. Or, perhaps not. Peut-être demain.
One of the women comes out bearing a glass of orange juice on yet another plate. She walks around to the left of Jessica and tries to put the glass down but, finding this rather difficult, with the array of plates and spoons already there, reaches across Jessica to put it at her right. Exactly the same sequence of events then occurs when my orange juice arrives. Having ample sugar and spoons to stir into the typically acid tropical orange juice, we proceed with this endeavor, as no other ensemble is yet complete—coffee, tea, milk and sugar without cups, jam and butter without bread. We sip our orange juice quietly. One of the slightly less terrified young women comes out to us and takes a sugar bowl off our table. She moves the remaining sugar bowl to the spot the first one inhabited, fiddles it to what she perceives to be exactly the right spot, then walks off to a newly arrived guest, who has appeared out of thin air, carrying the sugar bowl she has retrieved from our table. We are left with six bowls of jam, and I realize we’ve probably gotten his jam as well. It strikes me that the concept of eating anything without a large bowl of rice is so foreign that they must have thought, upon seeing two neatly arranged plates with three bowls of jam on each of them, that this is what the vazaha eat for breakfast. Not eating rice for breakfast is the epitome of odd; it can’t get any stranger.
The other guest having settled down, the same charade is being played out for him, leaving us with our orange juices and an otherwise full table, but nothing else to eat or drink. Ten or so minutes pass, and one of the young women comes to us carrying a basket with four small baguettes in it. We beam at her, and dig in. Meanwhile, the coffee and tea, carefully prepared and brought to us so long ago, are growing cold in their pitchers.
Jessica finishes her two baguettes and, hungry for more, asks the woman who comes to spirit away the empty basket if we might have more bread. She looks doubtful. After some coercion she agrees, walking slowly back to the kitchen as if wondering how to steel herself for the cook’s rage at this request. Almost immediately, a large plate of freshly baked biscuits is brought to our table, by the same woman, who announces proudly that our bread is coming shortly.
“Oh, but the bread is not necessary,” Jessica says, looking at the biscuits covetously, “you see, we did not know there were biscuits coming.” The woman looks unsure, and walks slowly back to the kitchen staring at her feet.
About halfway through the plate of biscuits, the majority of jam now gone, orange juice long since finished, cups arrive. Not only cups, but cups with saucers, leaving one wondering what the first delivery of saucers was about, and what it is we’re supposed to do with them now.
Finally, as the last dregs of breakfast are being swallowed, yet another gleaming white plate is borne out by yet another terrified young Malagasy woman. On the plate sit two nicely folded napkins. The plate is placed in the one spot on the table that is not already covered in gleaming white plates, firmly out of reach of both of us. And so ends breakfast at the Relais de Masoala.
Next week: Chapter 15 – A Sea of Moral Ambiguity
I love it. I am mesmerized, as if reading a mystery novel with many plot twists. Keep them coming.
😂 Precious! Your posts never disappoint.