July 28, 2007
I don't recall much about the flight from Fort Dauphin to Nosy Sainte Marie, but I do remember it was preceded by an extended period of primitive camping or otherwise severely limited accommodations, which explains some of what I wrote in this excerpt from my notebook:
I'm flying with my face pressed to the plastic before the window, studying the mountains and rivers, wondering why some parts are green and mottled with trees and others are arid, and the steward brings the food trays. I select a cheese sandwich (in the French style with butter on a baguette.) Leah prefers the aisle seat; there is an empty seat between us. (How very strange? Maybe less than half the seats are empty. "Why didn't we trawl the runway to pick up more passengers, like the taxi-brousses?" I quip to myself.)
The sandwich has a paper napkin around it and then the whole thing is wrapped in plastic. I unfold the plastic and then unfold the the napkin, which I hold up. It has a border of square dimples and an elaborate design of schematized flowers, leaves and hearts. Something spontaneous and strange happens. I pull my shoulders up and together, and swallow a trill of personal laughter. I'm amused with the frivolousness and elaborate absurdity of my napkin. I have the urge to wipe my hands on my sleeve, rather than the napkin, and then casually urinate in the empty row ahead, rather then in the empty bathroom nearby. (Public urination is all too common in Madagascar and out of necessity I now urinate the way everyone else does.) As fast as I am entranced, it breaks and I consider the change in my sense of mores. I turn to Leah and notice she has carefully wiped her napkin of crumbs and squirreled it into the pocket of her day bag, which holds precious bits of Kleenex. What has happened to us?
