Undiscovered Comoros Islands, Indian Ocean

Scattered in the Indian Ocean between Madagascar and Mozambique are the four small islands of the Comoros, whose name comes from the Arabic for "moon". The name is strangely appropriate considering the islands have been so surprisingly isolated from the tourism boom that has enveloped the rest of the Indian Ocean nations.

Harbor

Like neighboring Zanzibar, the archipelago lies at the crossroads of the Arab and African civilizations, and its Arabian heritage can be seen in the delicate arches of its whitewashed mosques. Like another neighbor, the Seychelles, it also boasts all the requisites of a fantasy island, tropical warmth, turquoise waters, palm trees. But nobody visits the Comoros – supposing they have even heard of the place.

The reason is the troubled Comoran history. Since independence from France in 1975, the Union of the Comoros has been anything but united. While one of the islets, Mahoré, voted to remain a French overseas territory, the three others have gone through a turmoil of no less than 20 coups d'états, several led by the infamous French mercenary Bob Denard, with the latest occuring as recently as 2008.

No wonder that when I landed on Ngazidja, the main island, I found a neglected (but peaceful) backwater. Imagine streets with more potholes than asphalt, goats munching on heaps of roadside trash, dilapidated collective taxis wheezing around, and run-down hotels, only one of which had 24-hour running water. Conversely, the total absence of foreign tourism meant that people were friendly and happy to chat.

Tower

But once I had visited the few nice sandy beaches and spent a few evenings belting out karaoke favorites at one of the three decent restaurants in Moroni, the capital city, I discovered that I had pretty much exhausted the after-work entertainment possibilities. Only one adventure remained - to hike the Karthala volcano.
Its dark mass looms 2,361 meters above the port of Moroni, sometimes wrapping its rainforest-covered flanks in a blanket of clouds. It happens to be one of the most active volcanoes in the world, having erupted 20 times in the past century. But at the time of my visit it had been quiet for two years, so a climb was safe. Because the paths up were notoriously poorly marked, I hired a guide. His name, appropriately, was Chauffeur ("driver" in French).

On the said day, he swung by at 5 a.m. to pick me up from my hotel, where I waited gazing at the starry sky beside the bemused security guard. Our battered taxi collected another traveler, a Frenchman named Ludovic, and we drove to a village an hour away. Chauffeur was wearing a pajama-like tracksuit, a droopy sweater and worn boots, Ludovic (like myself) regular clothes and a pair of trainers.

Both took regular cigarette breaks. Little wonder that peasants in flip-flops breezed effortlessly past us, when we set off through plantations of banana trees, fragrant clove trees and vanilla bushes. Vanilla had been the cash crop of the islands until artificial flavorings made its price crash. Our guide was less than knowledgeable when we asked him about wildlife. "Are there any snakes here? - Yes there are. What kind of parrot is that? Yes, it's a parrot."

Landscape

After an hour-long slog up winding paths, we emerged from the forest and walked through rust-colored heathland. We were now high enough to take in both edges of the island, where the blue of the ocean melted into the sky. We stopped to pluck wild strawberries, which seemed to melt on our tongues in a burst of sweetness. Around noon, we reached zebu pastures and pitched our tents, then continued upwards in the mid-day heat.

Presently, we hiked on ashen gray land, stepping over sun-bleached dead trees. We climbed one last ridge and a lunar landscape opened in front of us. The most barren field of brownish ash, strewn with rocks, stretched ahead. We trudged across it to reach the edge of the collapsed crater, the caldera. Hundreds of meters below us, two tiny fumaroles puffed.

The only sound was the whisper of the light breeze. We picnicked, snoozed. Ludovic wrote "la vie est belle" (life is beautiful) in the sand, then we proudly crossed the moon-like surface again and made our way back down to our campsite.

The next day, the climb down the mountain was long and uneventful, until we reached the village, where the children excitedly pointed at us with cries of "mzungus!" (white people). I had a wonderful time and I think, with more development, that the islands could be a tourist attraction. Someday, perhaps, the children of the island won't find visitors to be so strange and unusual.

Ranking: 5