On an island where rice paddies are planted and harvested by hand, ox carts are a common means of transport and most meals are cooked over charcoal, we visited a village that, even by these standards is considered remote.
When we were planning our trip, we didn't realize just how far off - truly far off the beaten path this visit was going to take us.
Belo Sur Mer is a tiny seaside village often cut off from the mainland during the rainy season for up to five months.​
Built around an inlet, the term "remote" only begins to describe this little village on the Mozambique Channel on Madagascar's Western coast.
There is one road into town and it's the only road in town.
The road isn't paved, there's no public water system, sewers or electricity.  
When in it comes to sanitation, the locals let the pigs out each night to cleanup.
The go-slow atmosphere and locals that keep an ancestral way of life,
​contribute to the feeling that you've stepped into another time and place.
Those of you who have been following our adventures, know that we are sailors.

We looked for more than four years to find the right boat and another four years to build and fit her out.  During that time we researched boat designs going back well over a hundred years.  The result, BlueTopaz our traditional gaff rigged schooner.
​On the island of Madagascar, they've been building sailboats for about a thousand years.

So it should be no surprise that when were in Madagascar, we made it a point to visit a place where they build schooners by hand, using local materials and methods taught them over a hundred and fifty years ago
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We had been traveling the remote regions of Madagascar for almost a month.  It had been an exciting exploration with adventures both anticipated and unplanned. 

​This particular adventure started one evening when Joslin, our driver, told us that we would be leaving early the next morning.
When I asked how early, he said "We leave at 4:00 o'clock".  I said "4:00 o'clock in the morning!".  He smiled sheepishly and said "Yes 4:00 o'clock in the morning".

At this point, Joslin had been our guide and driver for several weeks and we had come to trust his judgement and didn't press the issue.
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4:00 AM found Teri and I packed, standing next to the Land Cruiser, ready to go.  We were leaving the beautiful Manga Lodge, near the village of Andavadoaka, a quaint lodge on the coast over looking the Mozambique Channel. 

​It's famous for diving and unique underwater adventures.  We'd spent the previous evening in a comfortable little cottage and enjoyed gourmet French cuisine with madame Guicheteau, the owner, and her family - since we were the only guests at the time.
At 4:05 AM ,in a heavy fog, we set off following a heavily rutted road filled with potholes big enough to swallow the proverbial VW beetle, before turning on to a "barely there" zebu cart tract. 
We bumped along this track for several hours before coming to a break in the foliage, where we drove out onto an almost deserted beach. In either direction, as far as we could see,  was a sparkling sand beach and one lone boy with his fishing spear.
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Directly ahead of us was, what looked like, a quarter mile of dry river bed.  Joslin, turned to the right, drove down the beach about a half mile, turned left and proceeded to drive across what proved to be a tidal plain. ​

When asked why he didn't cross where we first came out on the beach, he smiled, shrugged and said "Car no like quicksand!".  ​He drove on with a knowing smirk that said very clearly - this is why we left at 4:00 AM and this is why you pay me.
​The remote regions of Madagascar were littered with the broken and abandoned cars of intrepid travelers whose local knowledge was lacking.  Teri and I looked at each other and silently agreed that we made the right decision in getting a guide/driver.
An hour or so later we reached our destination.  On arrival we moved into just about the most luxurious accommodation in the village - the hotel and restaurant "le Dauphin Vezo".

Our thatch hut had no running water, toilet or electricity.  It was, however, situated on a beautiful sand beach and the inlet from the Mozambique Channel was right outside our door.
Mornings found us trekking twenty yards across the sand to the resort's bathroom facilities.  This rectangular edifice sat on stilts, four feet off the ground, a respectable distance behind the main building. 

​T​he bamboo construction housed four private rooms, two showers and two toilets.  All four rooms had face-bowls and mirrors, which allowed guests to present a proper face to the new day.   
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There was an additional face-bowl and mirror outside on the veranda for those who didn't mind sharing their morning ablutions with the public.
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On the veranda, when you finished shaving and let the water out of the face-bowl, you could hear it splash on the sand below.  The sink outlet, left the face-bowl, went down through the floor and simply stopped.  At least we didn't get our feet wet.  All water was gravity fed and the hot water heated by the sun in a big, black tank on the roof.  
Our hut wasn't totally without conveniences.  We traveled with own bucket and kept it close for late-night nature calls.  About three hours each night, there was electricity when the restaurant fired up its' generator in preparation for the evening meal.
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Power got to our hut via a 60 feet of extension cord run from the back of the restaurant to our hut.  We made sure we were available each night to charge up all of our electronic equipment.
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The people of Belo Sur Mer are boat builders.  They build dug out canoes (pirogues), sailing outriggers and wooden cargo schooners.

The local fishermen use outrigger canoes of the same design as those used by the proto-Malagasy when they made their voyages across the Indian Ocean.
​The history of boat building in Madagascar goes back over a thousand years.  Arab boats moved along the coast trading goods for slaves.   They were joined in the 17th century by European trading vessels. 
Each morning we watched the local fishermen sail by on their way out to sea on the morning tide and return with the days catch on the evening tide.  All of the fishermen's boats relied on wind and tide because they have no engines. 
Until the 19th centurey, the Malagasy fleet was composed of mainly small fishing boats and canoes.  But the Vezo Sakalava (coastal people from the Western region) wanted to develop larger trading vessels to move cargo around the island.

In the early 1860's, King Radama II of Madagascar requested the French government send shipwrights to teach his people the art of ship building.

​Shortly thereafter, the Joachim family, who were creoles of mixed European and African descent, and fellow marine carpenters from France's neighboring island of La Reunion arrived in Madagascar.​
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​Eventually, they settled in the western port of Morondova.  It was there, and in nearby Belo-Sur-Mer, that Enasse Joachim and his three sons began building schooners for Madagascar.

​The schooner design is of Dutch origin, the ships have 2 or 3 masts and reach up to 22 meter (72 ft) in length. 

​They have almost no external keel, which is ideally suited for navigating shallow Malagasy lagoons and beaching on the sandbanks and beaches.
Today, the descendants and students of the Joachims are still building schooners. 
​They build them by hand, using the methods and materials dating back over a hundred and fifty years.
Walking along the beach, we came across vessels in various stages of construction and repair. It is not uncommon to pass skeletons of older boats being stripped for materials side-by-side with new constructions in the process of being finished.
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Inspecting the boats, we gained an appreciation of the Malagasy boat builder's skill and craftmanship.  Each rib, beam and plank is hand hewn and miles of hemp caulking are hammered into their seams.  The Joachim's tradition is alive and well in Belo sur Mer.

Every once in a while,we have an experience that's so off the charts, you know that any retelling will be considered "a big fish tale".
​This is one of those **

**You have been forewarned-the most outrageous culinary experience we have ever had and for which there are no photographs!​  Want to know why?  You'll have to read on to find out.
We were sitting in Le Dauphin's beach side open air restaurant.  the sea-breeze was blowing in from the Mozambique Channel and the setting sun streaked the deepening azure sky with a blaze of pink cloud.
Our dinner order for the house specialty "le Fruit de Mer" had been placed the day before because (as we were told) the fisherman go out the next morning to fish up your dinner
Out fishing up our dinner
My French was good enough to recognize that "Le Fruit de Mer" meant "The Fruit of the Sea".  While there was no listing of what the house special specifically consisted of, I knew we were in for a very fresh seafood dinner.

However, we should have been clued in when our waiter, who spoke no English, repeated our order, "Duex le Fruit de Mer?" with a raised eyebrow, pausing for confirmation before writing it on his order pad.  He then looked incredulously at both of us when Teri added "un salade tomate" (one tomato salad).
The next evening, our waiter greeted us with a smile and directed us to a table, set for two over looking the beach and inlet beyond.  We had his full attention - being the only patrons at the time.

​The candles were lit and the restaurant was bathed in the glow from the setting sun.  He opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses before retiring to the kitchen.
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.A few minutes later, he reappeared with a platter of artfully sliced tomatoes and a half dozen baguettes.  He smiled, spread his hands, backed away and returned to the kitchen.   We clicked our wine glasses and hungrily started in on our "salade tomate". 

Before our third mouthful of local, sweet, sun ripened tomatoes, our waiter appeared with a giant clam shell hoisted on his shoulder.  With a smile and a bow he returned to the kitchen. 

​The shell was filled with sea urchins (live still wiggling-sea urchins).  Dozens of sea urchins!

​We were still taking in the spiny wiggling urchins, when our waiter reappeared with a second giant clam shell.  This new delivery was filled with dozens of oysters on the half shell.

​I don't know how he knew that Teri loves raw oysters.  But, somehow, he knew because as he left the table, he looked directly at Teri with a twinkle in his eye.  Teri sat there looking at the spread of oysters as if hypnotized by sirens.  With her hand lingering over the shell, she looked at me and said, "I want to but, you know I can't.  I'd never be able to explain this to Howard" (our family doctor) ​
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We continued to eat our tomato salad, watched the sea urchins wiggle and I watched Teri struggle to resist the oysters siren song.  (Eating oysters in third world countries can put you at risk of catching some very nasty diseases)

​Our waiter reappeared, looked our table over and went to retrieve a second table, placing it next to ours, straightened the tablecloths, nodded approval, turned and walked back to the kitchen.  ​Teri and I looked at each other, wondering what could possibly be next. 

A few minutes later he emerged from the kitchen with - you probably guessed it - a third giant clam shell!!!
 The third clam shell was filled with grilled fish: grouper, snapper and swordfish.  The third clam shell was followed by a very large bowl containing steamed mussels in white wine and butter, and an equally large bowl heaped with fresh seaweed salad.

We moved onto the grilled fish and mussels, thankful at last for something we could eat.  After a few minutes, we realized there was no way that we could be able to eat all of this.  

​We agreed we needed help!
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At this point, I should provide a little perspective on what's going on.  Our table was round and four feet in diameter.  The second table was the same size.  Each giant clam shell was about 2' across and filled two thirds of the way to the brim with seafood.  Are you getting the picture?  (we certainly hope so because the photographer was in a daze)
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Help took the form of a Polish film crew staying in neighboring huts on the beach.  The crew was in Madagascar filming a documentary on the Belo Sur Mer boatbuilders.  

The crew (director, producer, cameraman, sound man and a translator who also happened to be a Catholic priest. were five big guys who didn't look like they had missed many meals. 

The producer had attended Baylor university, where I had participated in a program at the university's medical school - Talk about a small world.​
It was entertaining to hear English with a "Texas Drawl" colored by a Polish accent.  When I explaied our situation and asked if they could help us out, they almost ran me over on their way to the table.

The seven of us were sitting around two tables laden with more seafood than we've encountered at any 5 star buffet in North America. 

The director, declaring his love for sea urchins, gave a lesson on the the proper way to dispatch and devour the wiggly creature. 

After about twenty minutes the guys began to slow down and one-by-one push back from the table. ​At that point, I recognized that despite a valient  effort, we had done all the damage we were able to do.
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I surveyed the restaurant to find where we might find additional help in dispatching our dinner.

A group of Swiss had come into the restaurant while we were involved in our seafood extravaganza.  I crossed the room to enlist some help from the group sitting at the bar.  After explaining the situation, two of them came over to have a look at what was on offer.  They looked at each other, smiled, pulled up two chairs and generously agreed to help us out.  

Twenty minutes later, we were all sitting around barely able to move.  We had eaten about two thirds of what was on the tables.

​I asked the assemblage if we had come to the end.  The response was "Skonzone"  "Achevee"   "Fini" and "We're done!"  At that point, I called the waiter over.
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He'd been standing close by with a subltle  smile on his face, watching the prograssive party unfold.  I asked if he and the staff would help us with our meal.  His smile broke out into a full face grin as he said " Oui out monsieur moi  Merci"

A spontaneious gathering filled with laughter, good conversation, fine wine and a meal we won't soon forget!  You;ll just have to take my word for it, because as Teri said "sometimes you've just got to ride the moment"

Oh yes and how much did our dinner cost? Le Fruit de Maer, wine and tip - just about $20 US!
The people of Belo sur Mer were warm and charming. 
​The children were curious and eager to spend time with strangers.

Belo sur Mer may be off the beaten path, but it beat a path into our hearts