Anjouan: an island you'll probably never visit

Text and photo Markéta Kousalová

Comoros is located roughly halfway between the popular tourist destination of Zanzibar and the home of King Julien the lemur from Madagascar. Geographically, there are four islands: Mayotte, Grand Comoro, Anjouan and Mohéli. From the political perspective, the first-mentioned Mayotte belongs to France, so it enjoys above-standard conditions. The remaining three islands form a union with the capital Moroni on Grand Comoro. The second largest island of Anjouan, called Ndzwani in the local language, will be the scene of today's narrative.

A regular service from Dar Es Salaam in Tanzania drops me off at Prince Said Ibrahim International Airport in Hahaya on the main island, where our liaison Abdu picks me up at passport control. He hands an envelope with "unknown" contents over to the customs officer, and soon I am sitting in the musty office of another officer issuing visas. After about 40 minutes of haggling, I finally leave with a barely dried stamp in my passport. I will spend the night at a hotel in Moroni, the last chance to catch a hot shower and a nice, chilled drink.

A few hours later, I climb out of a taxi at the airport. "Do you speak French? Do you have a husband? You don't?! Then you should definitely find one here!" With these words, the airport attendant has me take a seat on a bollard in front of the terminal, where I wait for a colleague to arrive, whom I am to replace. It's a good 32°C in the shade, and my clammy uniform sticks to me. I don't like wearing it, but it ensures my smooth passage through the airport, so it's worth the looks and comments. Rumbling down the hot tarmac was my dearly beloved Czech friend - a Let L-410 Turbolet airplane - that would be my carriage for the next few weeks. Colleagues and I greet each other while simultaneously bidding adieu, exchanging the latest news from home and from the island. And then hurrah, it’s off to Anjouan.

The first time we landed here, it was quite the celebration. Everyone received a wreath of fragrant ylang-ylang flowers and decorations covered with aluminum foil, and on top of that, a greeting from the airport manager. By the way, the wreath is recyclable, the guys later had to return it to be used for the next delegation. I could keep my "lady’s" wreath because it was made of nothing but flowers.

There is no such thing today, the locals are already used to their new "buses". We basically operate island-hopping public transport here. Very little can upset the locals in general. We have watches in Europe, and in Africa, they have time. For example, tickets can only be purchased at a few kiosks, mostly at airports. Forget about card payment; on the island, 90% of the time there is no electricity to power payment terminals. And don't bother looking for an ATM here either. However, one advantage is that wherever you pay, you pay in euros. They will give you back the local currency – Comorian francs. Despite these minor complications, flights are constantly sold out, even if their times change from day to day, or rather from hour to hour. I have never been able to decipher how this information is actually disseminated when many locals don’t even have a phone (or have one, but without credit), yet somehow it works, and seemingly quite reliably.

Anjouan is a mountainous island that even Google does not have completely mapped. Therefore, when our mechanic Georgie discovers a series of waterfalls, we name them numbers One, Two and Three and let them guide us. It has been raining heavily for two days now, which is why there is a lot of water in the riverbed. The locals don't hesitate to pull out big loads of laundry. We jump from stone to stone trying not to get too wet as we crossed the first ford. Not that it really matters, since in that tropical atmosphere with almost 100% humidity, we still look like a bucket of water has been poured over our heads. At the second ford, the water is up to the waist and the current is quite strong. So long, dry feet. We are coming up to waterfall Number One. Gorgie claims that he has swum here before, but we find the water so wild after the rains that none of us have the courage. Never mind, it’s off to Number Two. We continue to climb the mountain along the beaten path and bump into ylang-ylang flower collectors. Besides the clove that also grows here, it is the most sought-after export item. They pay the natives about 5 euros per kilo, while perfume producers sell a bottle with a minimum amount of flowers for 100 euros. C'est la vie! It looks like the path ends. Wrong! We just have to navigate the rock gap like in the movie Jumanji. I don't look around unnecessarily in the cave, because I know there are spiders there, but what the eyes can't see, the heart doesn't grieve over, right? And then we hear the roar of Number Two, which has a wonderful mini lagoon just made for swimming. We relax immersed up to our necks in refreshing but not cold water. We didn't make it to Number Three today, since Bob was wearing sandals and slipping terribly... Maybe next time?

Snorkeling is next on the agenda as part of a single day off in a packed flight program. There is a "company" Honda available, which lacks a few trifles like decent shock absorbers and so on, but it doesn't matter on local roads built like tank training grounds, because you can't go faster than 20 km/h anyway. And who's driving? I volunteer when I see the unenthusiastic faces of my colleagues. “And you can drive a car?” our local liaison Jani asks in disbelief. “I fly a plane, why couldn't I drive a car?” I reply. “But that's completely different! You're a girl!” he retorts. Yeah, I'm a girl… But the vehicle's mandatory equipment includes a pocket-sized Koran, so safety is guaranteed. So now it's off to Sima Beach. Though only located about 30 km from our residence, the journey takes almost two hours. A beautiful sandy beach, palm trees straight out of a catalog, and beneath the waves corals and fish of all colors! How come there's no garbage? I watch a boy walking through the beach with two palm baskets, and to my surprise, he is collecting waste. I have to chat with him, praising his goodwill activity. He says that he studies tourism on Moroni and makes the rounds over four beaches, two on Anjouan and two on Mohéli, cleaning them every week. That's great! If only there were something like waste collection that would take the result of his work at least to some landfill, but they don't have anything like that here. They don’t even have garbage bins or sanitary workers. All the garbage gets dumped into the river. And when the rains come, the river flushes it away, making its way to the ocean, only to eventually wash right back up onto the beach. An environmental disaster in real time, but what can the locals do about it? Leadership here changes faster than you change your socks, and each new president just tries to hoard money for himself while he manages to cling to power. It's sad. There are fantastic places in Comoros to which tourists would fervently flock. Or maybe it's a good thing that tourists are not flocking yet?

A typical conversation between me and a local goes something like this: "What part of France are you from?" "I am not from France, I am from the Czech Republic." "Oh... And what part of France is that?" Locals do not know much about the world outside Africa. The only foreigners who come here are mostly French, thanks to the proximity of Mayotte and the fact that they are one of the few peoples who can communicate here. The official languages are Comorian, French and Arabic. Comorian is an interesting blend of Swahili, Arabic, and other African languages. Something of a mishmash, mixed like the locals in whose veins the blood flows of sailors who once stopped here on their way to Madagascar and beyond.

Since the islands are not included in the offers of travel agencies, they retain their authenticity. Locals are relaxed and friendly people, and everyone knows everyone. Even our three "white faces" were soon remembered. I walked around "our" village of Ouani alone, even in the dark, and I never felt in my spine an evil look cast my direction. The Comorians are Muslims, so I tried to follow a certain dress code in the form of loose-fitting clothing...long, loose pants. But, for example, short sleeve shirts were also common. Indigenous women usually wore something like an Indian saree – a saree shiromani, a strip of fabric in which the woman wraps herself from head to toe. The materials are splendidly colorful. Sometimes the head is covered by a matching scarf or just a slightly straight part of the shiromani. Popular here is the face mask of msindanu, a yellowish paste made of sandalwood root, which serves as a sunscreen, cosmetic care and beautifier all in one.

And what’s for dinner? First of all, you could count the refrigerators on the island on one hand due to problems with electricity as I mentioned. Of course, all kinds of fish are excellent and available. The waters surrounding the Comoros Islands are rich in tuna. We also loved the "poisson rouge" – a kind of red fish. It always looked a bit different each time, but it always tasted fabulous. There's no huge selection of restaurants on the island, and once you get to one, there's no point in browsing the menu. They usually have but one item and will bring it to you no matter what you might order. There are also good chicken wings to be had in the form of street food. Some are trustworthy, others less so. In general, however, the street market with fresh seasonal vegetables, fruits, and not-so-fresh canned goods will be your best bet for shopping. Make sure to head out in the morning when the fish are fresh. But not too soon, since the locals like sleeping in. And after lunch there is a siesta. You can't get anything because everyone is resting. The village does not come to life again until the evening.

Other supplies to the island are by boat. Anjouan has the only deep-water port in the entire union, so we are lucky to be right at the source. However, the ship arrives only about once a month, and the fact that it has not arrived for a long time is clearly reflected in the empty shelves in the shops. Except pharmacies…they’re always empty. Life in the Comoros is not easy, but it definitely has its charm. If the winds ever does blow you in that direction, please say hello from me to Anjouan!