“That is a helluva lot of beer,” I laughed. THB stands for Three Horses Beer, Madagascar’s favourite tipple. It is a pleasant lager, very welcome on a hot day, or when the red wine is so terrible it is undrinkable, even by our standards.
We soon found out why the lorries were stationary. The middle of the pontoon bridge, the only access across the river, was submerged in a foot of water.
A gaggle of men, watched by a horde of small boys, was attempting to refloat the sunken sections, but they didn’t seem to be having much success.
The river looked impassable.
“Nous returnons a une autre hotel,” Nigel said in very bad French. Our driver, young Rijard and his silent companion, Danny, decided otherwise.
“Non, non,” replied Rijard as he edged the car forward, ignoring exhortations by us, and the small group of lorry drivers by the bank, to stay put.
He stopped by the river bank.
“What do we do now?” I asked, of no-one in particular, which is why I probably got no response.
I waited, patiently, for at least ten seconds, then jumped out of the car and on to the pontoon.
It was made up of large sections, which together, were obviously strong enough to support the steady stream of traffic that made its way daily to the beach resorts.
The middle section however had recently sunk at least a foot into the filthy river and as I approached I could see two men struggling to refloat it with a long hose attached to an engine.
I turned back to tell Rijard that the bridge was definitely impassable for now, only to see Nigel and Danny come towards me, ahead of Rijard who was driving the car on to the pontoon.
“Non, non,” I cried, in vain. He drove on, stubbornly refusing to even acknowledge me, and before I could roll up my trousers to wade across, he was on the other side, followed quickly by a string of taxi-brousses (Madagascar mini-buses) and saloon cars.
I took off my sandals and plunged into the submerged section of the bridge. The water was dirty grey, very dirty grey, thick with unidentified vegetation and no doubt human and animal faeces and urine, but at least it wasn’t cold.
My paddle across was accompanied by shrieks of laughter from small boys, who obviously found it amusing that the vahuza (white person) was getting her feet wet.
I felt a rather exaggerated sense of triumph as I landed on the other side where I waited for Nigel, and the still silent Danny. They had taken what I considered to be the more dangerous route and had walked along the edge of the pontoon.
Rijard shrugged off our compliments on his driving skills. “It is twenty kilometres to Foulpointe,” he said with a new authority, clearly pleased that he had got us safely across the river.
I settled back to enjoy the last few miles when my right leg started to itch. “Oh my god, I have bilharzia,” I said, grabbing the guide book to check the symptoms of this “nasty and debilitating disease” caused by parasitical pond snail, which worms it way under its victims skin.
“I am sure you haven’t,” said Nigel, who is used to my daily announcements of impending sickness and death. Yesterday I had malaria, tomorrow I will have heart failure, today it is bilharzia.
As I bent down to scratch the itch, three large spots appeared. “I have been bitten,” I said, stating the obvious.
I turned back to tell Rijard that the bridge was definitely impassable for now, only to see Nigel and Danny come towards me, ahead of Rijard who was driving the car on to the pontoon.
“Non, non,” I cried, in vain. He drove on, stubbornly refusing to even acknowledge me, and before I could roll up my trousers to wade across, he was on the other side, followed quickly by a string of taxi-brousses (Madagascar mini-buses) and saloon cars.
I took off my sandals and plunged into the submerged section of the bridge. The water was dirty grey, very dirty grey, thick with unidentified vegetation and no doubt human and animal faeces and urine, but at least it wasn’t cold.
My paddle across was accompanied by shrieks of laughter from small boys, who obviously found it amusing that the vahuza (white person) was getting her feet wet.
I felt a rather exaggerated sense of triumph as I landed on the other side where I waited for Nigel, and the still silent Danny. They had taken what I considered to be the more dangerous route and had walked along the edge of the pontoon.
Rijard shrugged off our compliments on his driving skills. “It is twenty kilometres to Foulpointe,” he said with a new authority, clearly pleased that he had got us safely across the river.
I settled back to enjoy the last few miles when my right leg started to itch. “Oh my god, I have bilharzia,” I said, grabbing the guide book to check the symptoms of this “nasty and debilitating disease” caused by parasitical pond snail, which worms it way under its victims skin.
“I am sure you haven’t,” said Nigel, who is used to my daily announcements of impending sickness and death. Yesterday I had malaria, tomorrow I will have heart failure, today it is bilharzia.
As I bent down to scratch the itch, three large spots appeared. “I have been bitten,” I said, stating the obvious.
“See I told you I had bilharzia,” quietly satisfied that I was suffering from a near fatal tropical disease. Either that, or an insect bite.
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