Toamasina (Tamatave)
Following the smell of vanilla
The comings and goings of hopes for leaving the port of Toamasina. 24 hours after first announced we will leave towards Maroantsetra. For the time being among the downpours that come and go, the ascending sun that recovers their might, the messages that delay more and more our departure, we doze waiting. The morning's fuss shows a revealing change; freight goods are being loaded. And we also form part of them. Once tarps are tied, we place ourselves on top of them. The orange jackets that some boys of the crew wear are the only reminder of the color codes of the safety measures. Here each one has the right to conceive it according to her or his own circumstances.
Trucha
Bustle and excitements open the way for a more favourable climate for the 18 hours of sailing that is waiting for us. The dazed atmosphere takes over the deck. The sun burns the ankles. Small conversations that obey the desire of communicating but without committing the own effort to stand. The vault of the light burns, petrifying those that are under, stretched out on the deck. The salt covers everything with an icy layer. And burns. I remain suspended between that roof of the overwhelming heat and the sways of my stomach that tries to burst. At the moment I refuse to accept a dish of rice that the boys of the crew offer to me; before to the other native passengers, in an expression of distinction. The daze disappears as long as we retrieve the shades. The reciprocities speed up as if suddenly hurry arose to recover hours of lethargy. And with full knowledge of the facts. The sun becomes round and and falls quickly into the sea. Different stars, whole constellations are to emerge. Some of us await on top of the load in moulded holes under our rears. Others try to make themselves comfortable where they want and can. The laid down light sculpts the crests of the waves, draws the mark of our passing. There, with different gaze, we enter the Milky Way that guides us through the Indian Ocean. We sometimes cross the areas of hotter waters and the air wraps the feet with a reek that allude to the bottoms full of of greenish tangles. Other times there is no more remedy left than to look for the holes among the human clutter for, surreptitiously, heating the extremities. Do I think sleeping or do I sleep thinking? The pastime remblings. Little by little the night loses its starry intensity. The contours of the distant coasts resurge breaking the horizon.
Arrival to Maroantsetra
We guess our port when four o"clock in the morning brings us closer to our destination. The disembark begins one kilometer out of the coast. Some small boats await us to unload the ship, passengers included. And this way we head for meeting of the hubbub of the dust and of the scents.
