Getting Plastered

So now I’m going to tell you of my adventures hiking in Mafate this past weekend. It goes like this:

A few weeks ago Anya (German ERASMUS student and surf buddy of Gesa) calls up Gesa and says that there’s supposed to be a really cool festival at Mafate this past weekend.

“Neato” we said, “we’re in!” (In so many words.)

Let me tell you about Mafate:

Lonely Planet describes Mafate as a cirque (circular shaped mountain thing) named after a runaway slave who hid there way back in the day. Wikipedia says that the word “mafate” comes from the Malagasy word “mahafaty” which means “lethal, an allusion to the difficulty for accessing the cirque.” Although the Lonely Planet explanation is the more reputed one, this second one begins to explain the trek one must endure to gain access to the cirque.

Perhaps this helps:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cirque_de_Mafate

Friday:

Had you been here, you would have witnessed me jamming various articles of clothing and items of food into my bag in order to make our 9 a.m. rendez-vous at the Gare de Tampon. We roll in at a casual 9:15 a.m., load Anya, Diana (Espagnole) and Oi-ki (Anglaise) into Gesa’s disheveled sea green 1996 Twingo. Suffocating from the two tents, five backpacks, and five bodies, our saving grace, if it could be called that, was a half-working iTrip. From Tampon we start the drive up to Le Port where we intend to ditch the car and embark on our voyage deep into the mountains. Without fail, we enter traffic at St. Leu, finally arriving at Le Port around 11a.m. After unloading the car, we determine that we need to call a 4 X 4 to take us to the real drop-off point. The 4 X 4 will traverse 11 kilometers or so of rubble and river before finally delivering us to Deux Bras, or as I’d like to think of it, civilization’s last hurrah.

At Deux-Bras there are supposed to be two paths to Aurere, the village to which we are headed. The first path descends through a valley and then ascends to Aurere while the second mounts the whole way, coming upon Aurere after having gone over the mountaintop. The first option is explained as being two and a half hours while the second is considered a four-hour trek. I was really hoping for the two and half hour one. HA! When we set out, no one of course, had any idea which path we were actually taking but after the three hour mark it became quite clear what was ahead of us.

After a very sweaty four plus hours, we arrived and I threw my backpack on the ground. Oh yes, I did indeed haul my convertible rolling-suitcase-with-backpack-straps up the mountain. Daddy, I think the price has finally been justified on account of both use and humiliation.

We set up camp right away and I heard possibly the best news ever. THERE IS A SHOWER. It cost two euros to take a hot shower but, holy Jesus, happiness could be bought. After the shower, the party could begin. I put on my finest Patagonia trousers and American apparel t-shirt, a fleece and a scarf, which I might add is the most amount of clothing I’ve yet worn on this island. I then uncorked the wine bottle, which, I guess, could have been the reason for which my bag was so heavy. Who knows.

That night we listened to a series of reggae bands. Everything that comes to Mafate either had to be carried up or air-lifted. For this reason, all the musicians shared instruments so as to not have to bring their own. The music was good and it wasn’t too crowded. Overall, it was a nice time.

Saturday:

I woke up to the burning hot sun beating down on our tent, hearing some man should out “cereals, the café, 1 euro.” Managed to get up and clean myself up. By that time people were starting to talk about going to a river where we could swim. Hmmm. In order to find a swimming hole, we were going to have to go way back down. Crap. Well, we all agree to go. There really is nothing else to do. (“We” is a group of about 15 Spanish, 10 British, 4 American and 2 German assistants.) After several attempts to find the right path, we are let by a crazy, still-drunk-or-high-from-last-night man down a hill. For some reason we continue to descend but do eventually get there.

Arriving at the water was quite something. Blanketed by carefree Eurotrash, the scene was something out of a movie. The group advanced deeper within the area, gliding easily over the steppingstones that laced the sides of the river together. Having already had a bit of a problem crossing the river yesterday, I was not too eager to proceed over this one on foot. After having decided to keep moving, I planted my foot on a slippery rock and face planted into the stream right in front of some rasta man and his daughter. They laughed at me and I laughed at myself, emerging not only with wet feet but a scratched and bleeding arm, a bruised knee and a bump on my shin. I don’t know how it happened but I thank God because my camera didn’t get wet.

When we got back, I borrowed a few “plasters” (a.k.a. Band-Aids) from the Brits. (You didn’t really think I would name a blog entry after the act of inebriation, did you?)


Sunday:

We got up again, feeling a little better that we did on Saturday morning. Eager to get home, I got my stuff together for the vertigo-inducing descent. Our first attempt at leaving was not terribly fruitful. We took a loop that later joined back up with the main trail back at camp. Great. When we found the correct trail, we continued down, being careful not to fall into the cirque. What a picturesque place to die that would have been. Arriving at the bottom, it becomes clear that we should have booked a 4 X 4 for the return trip. We milled around for a bit, trying to get on one, with no luck. At this point, we were very tired from the descent and ready to be there. Having no real other option, we set out on foot to conquer the eleven kilometer long trail. Great. After about two and a half hours and five times forging the river à la Oregon Trail, we arrived at the car park. It seemed as though my backpack was actually making my upper arms work- please don’t ask me how. Other than the fact that I am not a 72 year-old babbling idiot, you would have thought I was John McCain; I was just completely incapable of raising my arms.

So I did actually have a lovely time camping. I am sorry to report that the funniest thing that happened to me was the face plant in the water, but I can attest to the fact that I did not see one cockroach while being there (phew!). However, I suppose that the two that we found belly-up and dead when we got home made up for this.