"Amerikans. Amerikans." was the sound we woke up to on Friday morning. The Russians were calling to us. Their second boat was coming in, so we had to cast off and return when it was alongside. Now we were the fourth boat from the pier.

Once we had tied up again, the immigration officer called to us from a nearby, native fishing boat. In French, he instructed us to launch the "Petite bateau (the Grape)." and come to shore. We rowed to shore and followed the beckoning official to the "office." The office was a shipping container, with openings roughly cut into the sides serving as windows, a table and four chairs. The chairs were in various states of disrepair. We chose the worst looking, thinking to save the ones with curved wooden seats for the officials. Their hospitality would not allow this and they quickly had us sitting in the better chairs. One of the officers spoke a bit of English and through him we were able to decipher that our visas would cost $40 US each.

We went back to the boat to get some US cash, which they were more then glad to accept. Amy had to do the rowing, as I had smashed my finger trying to launch the Grape. Her rowing was met with Malagasy remarks from the crew of the local fishing schooners. I don't know what they said, but I was pretty sure they had never seen a woman rowing a man before. We got a receipt from the immigration officer, in case there was any question about where our $80 went. It seems that the person in charge of granting visas wouldn't be back till after lunch and we had to leave our passports. It was just this kind of hassle I was hoping to avoid by getting visas in advance. When we picked them up later in the day, the officer said "What? No gift? Cigarettes? Whisky?" This expectancy of gifts to officials was new to us. Our skin color was a definite disadvantage. Here, white means wealth.

Up to this point, all we had seen of Madagascar was from afar, as the pier was three-quarters of a mile long. As we walked to the mainland, men hanging out along the waters edge came up to us asking for "cigarettes, whisky" in what was probably the only English they knew. "No", we replied "We don't have any and they are not good for you." They understood the first part, but I'm not sure about the second. At the land-ward end of the pier, we passed through the guard station and into the town. Pousse-pousse drivers offered their services, but we passed them by in favor of walking. They use the Madagascar version of rickshaws, all colorfully painted and decorated with ribbons. We passed several buildings, but none identified as the port captain's office. We finally inquired at a likely looking building and were guided, a few blocks down the road, directly to his office by a very helpful gentleman.

After arriving at the Port Captain's office, we were told he was resting and that we should come back later. This was often the case on our subsequent visits. We decided to head down the street and do a little exploring. Amy really wanted to see a lemur, so we began looking for a tourist office or hotel that might be able to help us arrange a trip to the interior.

We were stared at from all sides as we walked down the street. I got the feeling not many white people visited here. Pousse pousses hurried past, trotting their passengers in reclined comfort to other parts of town. Old Renault taxis, barely wide enough for two adults to sit side by side, vied for their share of road with people, pousse pousses and trucks. Small children played with simple toys. A car made from a sardine can and bottle caps for wheels, a land yacht made from sticks and a plastic bag for sails, cans of various sizes serving as instruments for a one-man band. School children returning home with workbooks and papers under their arms. Shelters, houses really, consisted of sticks woven together and grass for a roof. There were power lines running down the road, but the only sign of electricity was music wafting from a few local watering holes. There were small charcoal stoves on the ground, with rice and beans cooking a meal. The charcoal was "real", not briquettes. Small stands offered grains and meats of difficult description. The people were friendly, always the first with a smile and a greeting, usually in French. Their colorful clothes were immaculately clean. With the obvious lack of fresh water, this seemed a small miracle. Our own clothes were not as well kept. I was asked to describe Tulear by Alistar, the ham radio weather guy from Africa. "Take away the old Renault taxis, the occasional Mercedes, wind back the clock 100 years and you're there." I replied. It's like visiting a historic theme park, only these people don't go home at the end of the day and watch TV.

We came to a native craft shop and explored our Christmas gift shopping possibilities. Amy inquired, by sign language and a little French, about wanting to see a lemur. The young man in charge disappeared into the back room and returned with the family pet, Mascot. Amy was thrilled. We took a few pictures and were later to discover that this was the only lemur around for a hundred kilometers!

We wandered a bit further down the road and came to a small tourist service. The owner, Katherin, spoke English, which was a rare thing in Tulear. We asked about renting a car. Ha. What were we thinking? "Impossible." was the reply. We could rent a motorcycle though. She made a phone call and arranged a rental for us, exchanged our US$ for Malagasy francs and called a taxi. This was a real stroke of luck. Within minutes we were whisked away down the crowded streets, weaving through whatever space the driver could find, regardless of which side of the road it was. People were everywhere. You would think you were in downtown New York, for all the crowds. We arrived at Trajectoire, an Italian run motorcycle shop. Now, I know my in-laws had some misgivings about my earlier life with motorcycles. "I spent my teenage years chasing girls and racing motorcycles." I blurted out when meeting them for the first time. But the experience, (with the motorcycles that is), paid off. At first, we were going to rent a kick start bike, but after watching the shop owner having trouble getting it started, we opted for an electric start. I could picture our rental day spent trying to start the bike and not seeing the country. Amy had never seen me ride before, and was so nervous that she made me take a test drive alone. It all came back to me in an instant and down the street I went. It has been 20 years since I had last been on a bike. I was tempted to show off and pull the front wheel up off the ground, but I thought better of it. I'm not sure the proprietor would have rented a bike to a reckless American. When I returned, Amy said I did impress the proprietor. He should have seen me 30 years ago!

After getting directions from the bike shop about a likely place for finding lemurs in the wild, Amy hopped on our Suzuki and off we went back to the Port Captains office. There we were greeted by a smiling face with a fair grasp of the English language. The port fees were explained to us and he offered to take our payments to the various agencies. At $130US (including the visas) Madagascar was the most expensive country to enter so far. We told him we would need to find a bank and he said we could wait until our departure to pay. He did take our original ship documentation as a sort of ransom. I suppose it was only fair.

We returned to Iwalani and were invited, by the Russian fishing boat owner, to dinner at a Greek restaurant on Saturday night. We were flattered that he wanted to hear about our trip and readily accepted. I should mention, at this point, that we had given up on using the Grape to get ashore. Three meter tides and the security issue were factors in this decision. Amy was not comfortable with the other option though. Clambering across three ships on rope ladders, planks between rails and looking down 20 feet to the water below, while using old tire fenders as stepping stones in somebody's idea of a water born jungle gym, left her panic stricken. It some times took a few minutes for her to gather enough courage to overcome the vision of being mashed into a pulp, having fallen between two surging ships.

Saturday we headed out to find lemurs. At first we got lost in a lively and crowded market area. There were large bags of fodder for the town livestock, sacks of charcoal, fruit and vegetables of all kinds, sticks for building houses, trucks overloaded with people and trade goods. After a few more wrong turns we got the motorcycle headed in the right direction. Following a paved road to the north, we passed ox carts and people on foot going to and from the weekend market. We turned off in the direction of a river. The road, if you could call it that, was rutted so badly that only a motorcycle, truck or oxcart could pass. As we got further from the main road, I began to worry about breaking down. There wasn't a single sign of life, animal or person. We had brought a picnic lunch, but how long could we make it last? A day? Two days? I didn't relish the thought of finding out. About the time my fear had reached a peak an oxcart appeared around the bend. Where did they come from? Soon I began to realize this was a well traveled road. If we had broken down, less then 30 minutes would pass before someone came along. It was so well traveled that the concrete paving, laid in two strips just wide enough for the wheels of a cart, was worn down the center like a gutter. Iron rims of countless oxcarts wearing down the stone.

After an hour or so of riding, we came to a village. Neat, brick plaster walls with thatch roofs dotted the landscape. There were no windows, just openings to the outside. No doors either for that matter. Just some thorny brush placed in the opening to keep out the livestock. The people would wave hello and now were using English! What? Further down the road we came to a nunnery and realized where the English had come from.

We came to the river's edge, where children were bathing in the small clear pools of water and laundry was being done. Rice farms covered the flat land along the river, with vegetables on the higher ground. We wound our way along for an hour or so and eventually stopped under the shade of a tree overlooking the river. Several people passed us on foot and by oxcart, always with a smile and a wave, but now we were hearing Malagasy. "Salama." ("Good Day") Some young teenagers, passing on foot, took and interest in what we were eating. Amy offered them some pieces of apple, which they eagerly took, laughing and giggling their way further down the road.

We returned to town and our dinner date with the Russians. Of course this meant another trip across the dreaded jungle gym for Amy. She still wasn't used to it. After long discussions about the appropriate dress ware for traversing old fishing boats and still looking our best for dinner, we left Iwalani at 8PM. The president of the fishing company, his son, and a young lady (who spoke English, Russian, French and Malagasy) drove us to Mr. Vasilly's Greek restaurant.

With the young lady acting as interpreter, we were soon corrected about the Russians. They are not Russians, but Ukrainians. They wanted to be sure we knew the difference. This brought up our shortcomings of world geography and we had to be brought up to speed on just where the Ukraine was. At the invitation of Madagascar, he brought his two boats to fish prawns. Unfortunately, the invitation was about as far as they went in helping him. He has been plagued by bureaucracy and export problems. There are no services to do repairs and diesel is hard to come by. He keeps his spirits up, knowing that his struggles could be worse elsewhere. I admire his strength and his work at a commercial enterprise. He is grateful for the opportunities the dissolving of the former Soviet Union has given him. He has visited the United States and had some interesting observations. One of which is how we are always trying to do things quickly. Fast food, fast cars. We even speak fast, cutting short words like "thank you" to "thanks" and "good bye" to "bye."

The Greek food was a delicious treat from our canned boat fare. We returned to Iwalani once again wiser of the world. Wiser indeed. The Malagasy are a proud and independent people. They are one of the more literate societies of the world. Seventy percent of the population can read. So why was it so hard to find a cold Coke to drink? (I finally found one on our last day here. Forget about finding Pepsi!) Why do these people choose to eat rice three times a day and cook on charcoal stoves? They have no use for electricity, survive quite well without running water, are clean and seem cheerful enough. They certainly don't have a trash problem. The only trash we saw were old dumps from the former occupation of the French, 30 years ago. Little wasted packaging comes into town now, and what does is recycled. Not because it's the "cool" thing to do, but because it's "the" thing to do. And they certainly know better, being able to read about how the rest of the world lives. Maybe that's it. They can see what has happened to "modern societies" and want no part of it. I applaud them. My first reaction was to get these people up to speed with modern life. After spending only a week in Tulear, my reaction is different. Improve the healthcare, yes. But beyond that, who am I to tell these people what a better life is? PS

A strange odor pervades the air, the omnipresent smell of charcoal, as outdoor fires slowly cooked battered pots holding beans, rice and small tid bits of meat. Ox dung and the hint of a spice not found on any tree. Everything turned to dust before it even hits the ground. There are no trash barrels, because there is no trash. Everything has value and is used. The people of Tulear are without a doubt the planet's masters of recycling, and have much to teach the western world about the value of "matter" and saving energy. The rare soft drink cans are cut up, soldered and turned into toys. Miniature cars, made from a can of condensed milk, with opening doors and windows. Tiny motorcycles with the Coca Cola logo. Plastic trash bags are worn sometimes as hats. Plastic strapping, used in holding together cargo bales, woven into baskets. These are not hippies from the seventies trying to be eco-friendly. This is their life. Children have few toys. Two fooz balls games, set up under a roof are the main afternoon entertainment for children. The Tulear version of a video arcade at the mall. The little players have long since been be-headed. An old golf ball serves as the soccer ball. There are no TVs, computers, video players or athletic fields. A movie theater existed at one time, but has been boarded up shut. Parts of Tulear looked like old western mining towns in the US. Abandoned and unused. And yet, in other places new construction abounds. Governmental offices, regulatory bureaus- even the pier we are tied to are being revamped. On one side of town a new Christian college is being built. On the opposite side of town, an even fancier Islamic College rises up. Someone got the idea to try and plant grass on the median that snakes its way down the main boulevard. But, the project fell victim to the dry, searing zephyr of wind. Baked brown, squares of sod lie like flattened cubes of "Shredded Wheat", adding to the dusty beige mosaic of color.

A single spigot provides water for countless families. Water containers are anything that will hold water- plastic buckets, empty olive oil cans. When filled, they are perched on top of women's heads, seemingly fastened like giant bottle caps. Nary a drop is spilled as the graceful women glide down the street in the slow procession of Tulear.

We found ourselves, one day, on a street that was even "poorer" than the rest. Wattle houses were replaced with "shelters" made from the modern day plastic equivalent of burlap bags. Still, the roads were full of the constant procession of ox carts, pousse-pousses, people and one or two fancy automobiles recklessly driving through the throngs. I had no idea that so many people existed on this planet. Around this time I began to wonder- what do these people do when they need to go to the bathroom? My question was answered as I saw two teenage boys, talking to one another, cross over railroad tracks that had long since been covered with dust and age, walk towards a high wall. Still conversing, they dropped their shorts, did their business, hiked their shorts back up and continued along, not missing a beat in their dialogue. The seering hot winds, had blast furnaced this area into a dried up dung heap. But, my medical mind thought of the havoc rain would play with this method of sanitation. The American part of me, thought instantly-‘what can we do to help these people?' But do they really want help? Is it presumptuous of us to think that our obsession with counting rolls of toilet paper and scrubbing ourselves clean forty times a day is a "better" way to live?

We plan our days around the weather fax, and satellite schedule. Tropical Storm "Atang" was crossing over the Northern part of Madagascar. Another named "Boura" was forming to the east. The Greek we had met, Mr. Vaccilly, assured us that Tulear had never experienced a cyclone. Once, the remains of one had hit, but the winds never went above fifty knots. Mr. Vacilly was also the owner of the wreck that Iwalani almost joined when we dragged anchor. Fifty-knot winds were more than Phil and I wanted to experience. While it would have been wonderful to rent a motorcycle for a week and with our tent and backpacks, cross over the Southern part of Madagascar to Fort Dauphin; leaving Iwalani was not possible. What looked like an overnight trip on maps and paper, was in Madagascar time, a ten-day trip. The Port Captain and everyone we talked to said never leave your boat alone- or "they" will come in pirogues and cut lines, or remove anything on the boat that they can. Everyone urged us to hire a guard for the boat when we went ashore. Being tied to the Russian fishing vessels seemed like protection enough, but wasn't fair to the Russians if they wanted to move their boats. It was time to face the crossing of the mighty Agulhas, and head for Africa. But first we had to pay our Tulear port fees.

I also got the bright idea that we should try and buy more diesel. We carried our jerry jugs down the pier and found an empty Renault taxi of 1950 vintage, forlornly crouched at the end of the pier. Standing like lost Americans, holding the jerry jugs, the wind whipped around us as we looked around for the driver. Within seconds a man came rushing out of one of the "bars"- a wattle hut, with a board for a bar, the customary three horse beer sign and several quarts of liquor on a shelf behind the "bar". In his exuberance, he ran to the taxi, opened the drivers side door, which promptly fell off the hinges and landed on the ground with a dull thud. He looked up with a smile on his face then gingerly put the door back in place. Future entrances to the cab were made through the passenger side. He then realized Phil and I weren't going to fit in the back of the cab with the jerry jugs, so disappeared towards the rear, where he spent a considerable amount of time prying open the trunk hatch, so it too, wouldn't land in the dust.

We had agreed upon a price of twenty five thousand francs, to go to the fuel station, to the tax office, which we had no idea the location of and then back to the boat. After much lurching, laughs, waves and pantomimed sign language we were underway for the fuel station. I had inquired to Phil about the status of our Malagassy francs. He assured me we had just enough for fuel, the port fee and the taxi driver. After several attempts at finding a gas station that wasn't out of diesel, we finally found one. I hopped out of the car and surreptitiously tried taking photographs. Philip came over to me and said we had a problem. His usual infallible grasp of currency and exchange rate had somehow gone awry when we arrived in Madagascar and he had to start adding, dividing and multiplying with so many zero's. We had one hundred and seventeen thousand Malagassy francs and the fuel bill was two hundred and fifty thousand. By now it was 3:30 in the afternoon and I didn't see any way that we would be able to pay the port tax, the fuel bill and the taxi driver with what we had for currency and time left in the day. Most of the business's in Tulear were only open from 10-noon and then from 2-4 in the afternoon. Phil decided to stay with the two men who were anxiously hovering around him, waiting for their money. My job was to find more cash. There are no bank machines in Tulear. Malagasssy money is similarly scarce. I grabbed Phil's wallet, with the small amount of Malagassy money we had and forty dollars US. I had no idea where I was, or where the nearest bank was. But I set off into the sun figuring if I went west, I was bound to run into something. Two years of ship-board life, does not a runner make. I was thankful for all the hiking we did in Reunion, as I at least had just gotten over blisters and shin splints. My feet and legs were in shape, even if the rest of me wasn't. I ran and I ran, like a rat through a timed animal behaviorist maze, finally finding the town center and a bank. Bingo. The little rat biscuit and bell sounded in my brain. It was now twenty minutes to four. Second in line for the currency exchange teller, I nervously stood watching the hands on the clock sweep past numbers faster than I could run. Sweat ran off of me in great torrents, making small pools of water on the floor. People turned to look at me, then waved me to the front of the line as they thought I was obviously a victim of some tropical malady with only hours to live. The teller said she could exchange my American dollars, but she needed my passport. ' I will be right back' I wheezed. She turned to look at the clock and said in French, better wait until tomorrow morning the bank closed at four. The waves of sympathy really poured forth when I said, 'I couldn't wait until morning', only with my limited French, it translated into 'I would have no more mornings.'

I left the bank at full speed and keeping my back to the sun, decided a more direct route to Phil would be through the fruit and veggie market directly in front of me. For some reason the soundtrack to "Chariots of Fire" entered my brain as I ran through the market, jumping watermelons, slaloming around mountains of potatoes and nearly coming to a grinding halt when I spied a small mound of lychee fruits in front of me. 'To hell with Phil' I thought for a very brief second, I have enough money to buy this entire pile of lychees and die of exsanguination in the process. The sad truth of lychee fruits, is that I love them almost as much as raspberries, but they have the disturbing side effect of causing me to bleed out of all orifices. It was probably less messy to continue on. Finally, I found Phil standing on the side of the road with a very worried look on his face. He had the passports, fortunately with the ship's papers. So I grabbed mine and headed back through the market. By this time I was beyond being thirsty, my legs were like pulsing bands of sinew and strength, or so I imagined, and I was now catapulting myself forward at hundreds of feet per second. First one person began cheering and then another joined in, as the strange white woman was making a return trip through the market, running at full speed without a pousse-pousse. Women do not run in Tulear. White women are rarely seen, so a white woman running, is a sight indeed. By the time I made it to the bank, I think three quarters of the town was cheering me on. The teller was in disbelief- I was too, as I still had seven minutes left on the clock.

We paid off the fuel bill and now were at the mercy of our taxi driver. The three horse beer had long since worn off and we were driven around town while he ran some errands. Then finally arrived back to the boat. I had been whispering to Phil that with all our flustering around we should pay him double. When we came to the bill paying he stretched out his hand and said "sixty thousand francs". Phil no sooner opened his wallet when we were surrounded by a pinwheel of outstretched arms wanting money. Our fuel jugs were grabbed by many people wanting to help, for a small fee. We firmly said "No", we could handle this and began the obstacle course over the ships to Iwalani, this time laden with fuel jugs.

Each time we embarked on this escapade, I kept reminding myself that there are no hospitals here. I am my own doctor, so if I fall off the plank, I have to remain lucid enough to tell Phil what to do. He didn't help matters by fluttering around staring at me, hands ready to grab me. It made me more nervous with him having such a worried look. If he just remained nonchalant it would have been a lot easier…

How nice it would be to have pousse-pousse's in our cities and airports. With muscle clad college students, either male or female as drivers, they would have no shortage of well paying passengers. They would get a great work-out, earn college money, produce no pollution and save energy in the long term. The view from the seat of a pousse-pousse is terrific, trust me.

Long legs pumping, shoulder muscles glistening- I need not say anymore...

We managed, after several attempts, to find a bank that could change our money. We paid the port fees, bought pounds of fresh fruit and veggies then treated ourselves to lunch at the Greek restaurant in order to use up the rest of our francs.

The following day we cast off from the Russians, giving each of them a T-shirt. We sailed off amongst the fleet of small Malagassy fishing boats.

"Where are you headed?" they yelled to us in French.

"Africa" we yelled back.

"We'll come too" they chanted back laughing and shouting, as they spun their pirogues around and followed in our wake, for a short time, before that too became boring.

We passed the monument marking the reef at the North entrance to the channel. A French design, with a vague resemblance to the Statue of Liberty when viewed from afar. Just to the Northwest in 263 feet of water, a small cat from Maine ended his long journey. Missed by all, loved by many, forgotten by none.

Thank-you one and all for the email, kind words and poems. They have helped us to heal. I had no idea that Stew- cat had such a following. People have been asking me are you going to replace him with another cat? As anyone who has spent time with him knows, there is no "replacing" Stewart. We may get another cat, someday, but I will be taking Stew's stash of cat food to the SPCA in Richard's Bay. Even now I am finding small odds and ends- reminders, he has left me. He never finished his memoirs, but was working on one more log, which I am having a very hard time figuring out. This poem was among his books and letters. APW

Just before sunset on Thursday we were tied up to "The Wall." The crew of Deva, a high tech cat from Maine, assisted us. Sailing is sometimes a very small world. We ate a 1-kilo rib dinner at the nearby restaurant and slept like logs.

Friday we rented a car "Basil"(Notice the color. Exactly like a can of Amy's favorite drink "V") named after the helpful rental agent and got back to the "Wall" in time to fuel up. We took on 140 gallons. I hope we are never that low again!

Saturday, the southerly buster came as predicted, with cold rain and 40 knots of wind. We were snug on Iwalani, with the wood stove going to take off the chill (all 68 degrees of it), glad we were not facing the Agulhas.

We will be staying here for a few weeks. Amy's sister is coming for a visit. We'll be going to the game parks and watching out for lions. Well, that's all for now.PS