The Indian Ocean islands of Comoros were once a favourite tropical getaway for sun seekers and honeymoon couples. Today the archipelago is devoid of tourists and the politically unstable country is in a mess ... by Jeremy Jowell

Bababoush Nasi Hadijah is not a happy man. Like many people in the island country of Comoros, he has had enough of watching the leaders ruin the land that he loves. "Our government is no good! " he shouts angrily. "They do not help us, they just take our money and put in their pocket. They do not care."
Bababoush is a fisherman who sets out to sea in his small boat whenever there's the promise of a good catch. "Sometimes we get big fish like marlin, tuna, wahoo and barracuda, but this month has been bad so now I have no money to buy food. We have big problems here in Comoros."
Situated midway between northern Mozambique and the northern tip of Madagascar, Comoros is a cluster of three islands – Grand Comore, Moheli and Anjouan. Almost 90 percent of the 600 000 population are Muslim.
Ever since their independence from France in 1975, the archipelago has been plagued by political upheaval with about 20 actual or attempted coups, the most famous being by French mercenary, Bob Denard. Not without reason is Comoros often referred to as ‘coup coup land’.
Under the current leadership of President Azali Assoumani, the country has gone from bad to worse. Political tensions have been simmering and in November 2003, Grand Comore was rocked by renewed violence when the army opened fire on demonstrators marching in the streets.
Comoros is in a crisis. Everywhere you look is rundown and broken buildings. Deserted cars lie rusting away on street corners. Beachfronts and harbours are treated as rubbish dumps. Several hotels have closed and the tourist industry has died. Poverty and unemployment are widespread and everything, from basic commodities to transport and food, is ridiculously expensive. Comoros is a nation of troubled souls yet despite all their problems, these poor people are among the friendliest in the world.

Until a few years ago, tourism was a thriving business in Comoros. The Le Galawa Hotel attracted thousands of South African sun-seekers and European visitors continued to stream in.
But now, due to political upheaval, an economic crisis and a fresh series of coups, the tourist infrastructure has crashed. Le Galawa and other hotels have closed, international flights are scarce and the islands receive virtually no visitors.
Planning a trip to Comoros is not easy as there is no direct air link from Johannesburg to the capital, Moroni. South African Airways stopped flying there a few years ago. Expensive flights via Reunion or the Seychelles are available but after much investigation I discover a cheaper alternative, by Air Tanzania from Zanzibar. Gathering information also proves difficult as there are no travel books, not even a Lonely Planet guide, about Comoros.
My Air Tanzania flight takes off from Zanzibar and an hour later, the northern shore of Grand Comore comes into sight. With the sun sinking low, we fly over palm trees and land at Prince Said Ibrahim International Airport. One nervous passenger near the front bursts into a prolonged applause.
The rundown terminal is the usual African airport chaos, and no one can speak a word of English. Luckily I get talking to the only other foreigner who offers me a lift into town with her Comoran business associate.
After a night of weird Larium dreams, I awake to a calm clear dawn. I’m staying at a pension near a shantytown on the outskirts of Moroni and after a breakfast of fried bananas and coffee, I set off for an exploratory walk. Africa awakes and sleepy children slowly emerge from corrugated iron shacks. A pretty woman dressed in a colourful kanga draws water from a communal tap. It's still early but already the sun is beating down hard. My shirt sticks sweatily to my back.
I arrive at Boulevard El Maarouf with a view across to the harbour and Mosque de Vendredi, the old crumbling Friday mosque. The road continues past the port and into the market where everything under the sun is for sale. Fruit and vegetables, second hand clothing, sandals, herbs and spices, pots and pans, kitchenware and fly-infested meat. With the rising sun come all the colours of Comoros. Bright red tomatoes are laid out in patterns on the pavement. Bulging sacks are opened to reveal golden French loafs that glimmer in the morning light.
Later I meet up with Amir Mohammed who has offered me his services as translator and guide. Amir used to work in tourism at Le Galawa Hotel and now freelances as an English teacher. In a place like Moroni where no one speaks English, he’s useful to have around.
After changing money at the bank, I need to extend my visa that was only granted for five days on arrival at the airport. Amir leads me along a littered path to the immigration office, a small dirty room with a surly official sitting behind a grubby wooden desk. He inspects my passport briefly and quickly hands it back.
"He says you must come back in four days as the authorities will only extend the five-day entry visa on the exact day that it expires," explains Amir. "They are scared that foreigners coming to Comoros might be mercenaries here to attempt a coup."
As a former tour guide, Amir is well aware of the benefits from tourism and he laments the lack of visitors to his shores. “There are problems in our land and hardly anyone comes here anymore. One day I hope to be the Minister of Tourism and then I will make sure my country is easy and accessible to tourists. Comoros could be a paradise and we should be able to share it with the world.”
I need to confirm my return flight so I head off to the AirTanzania office. But the room is completely empty. No telephone, no desk, no computer. Not even a chair. All the equipment, I’m later told, is waiting to be relocated from their headquarters.
An old man with a tattered notebook finally shuffles in through a back door. After showing him my air ticket, he seems to understand what I want. Resting his book on a window ledge, he opens a page and illegibly scrawls down my name. Only time will tell if I really am booked on the flight.

The next morning, while waiting for Amir to take me on a day trip, I explore the dirty surroundings of the shantytown. Rays of soft sunlight streak through smoke from a morning fire and bathe the littered grounds in an eerie silver light. The sound of chanting children attracts me to a small corrugated shack where 54 young boys and girls are reading from the Qoran. Their teacher allows me to stand at the entrance and watch but asks me not to take photographs.
Amir arrives with one of his English pupils, Zubeida, and we set off south down the coast. First stop is Iconi, a small village with a decaying sultans palace where two old Moslem men wearing sunglasses happily pose for my camera.
Further on we take a break to pick and smell the spices for which Comoros is famous - vanilla, cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg and the fragrant ylang-ylang that is exported and used in many famous international perfumes. The vegetation here is lush and we pass fields of mango, banana and Indian almond trees, also plantations of coffee, sweet potatoes cassava and coconut palms.
At the small town of Singani, we inspect black volcanic rock where the lava flow from Mount Karthala's 1977 eruption cut a destructive path to the sea. After a short walk through the ramshackle town of Fombouni, we continue on to Chomoni beach for lunch and a swim.
A hopeful youth approaches me somewhat optimistically. "Maybe you want to come and stay here for a while. I can cook anything you want and there’s a hut for you over there," he says gesturing to several broken bungalows that tell the story of a seaside resort gone wrong.
Before returning to Moroni, we stop in Zubeida’s mountaintop village. She wants to show me how the local women make msindanu, a yellow cream they paint onto their faces for skin protection and decoration. The paste is produced by rubbing damp sandalwood against a piece of coral and adding a little water.
Another Comoran tradition is the grand mariage, an eight-day period of religious and social ceremonies to mark the wedding of a man and his wife. “It’s difficult financially for the man because he must pay his wife’s parents a mahwi (dowry) of several million Comoran francs and should give his bride up to three kilograms of jewellery,” explains Amir. “But he then becomes a wandruwadzima, a grand notable who wears a special sash and is highly respected in the community. Another advantage of being a notable is that you never again have to stand in any queues.”

Moroni's shoreline resembles a rubbish dump. Discarded papers, plastic bags, broken bottles, rusty tins, mouldy clothes and crushed cool drink cans litter the rocks. Groups of children often bath in the harbour and I witness several men using the water for all types of ablutions.
I find myself walking through the streets, becoming increasingly depressed by the constant pollution and lack of concern shown for the environment. This is not the way a tropical island should look. This is, in fact, paradise lost.
One day I join a young French couple, the only other tourists I've seen in town, for an excursion to the north coast. Erwan Renaudin lived in Comoros until he was 12 years old and has just returned to visit for the first time in 15 years.
"I've got mixed feelings coming back here," he says, as we wind up a mountain road. "It's good to see old friends again but it’s also really sad to see how the country has gone downhill. This place has great potential for tourism but it's become run down, dirty and doesn’t operate efficiently. There are many power and water cuts that make life difficult for everyone. But the government don't seem inclined to try and rectify matters. And with all the rubbish left lying around, it shows that even the people do not care anymore."
We drive along the east coast, past Turtle Island and on to Lac Salle, a green crater lake that changes colour with the tide. Then finally, when I'd almost given up hope of finding any sign of paradise, we reach the small beach of Maloudje. With a turquoise sea, shady bungalows, a clean beach and gently swaying coconut palms, this is the perfect escape from the misery of Moroni.
Situated two kilometres from the town of Mitsamouli, Maloudje borders the defunct Le Galawa Hotel that closed in 2001 with the loss of 400 jobs. Le Galawa is today a ghost hotel, an eerie deserted building with dusty corridors and overgrown lawns. Security guards patrol the grounds around the clock to prevent any looting. The swimming pool is half full of green slimy water and the sign at the bar still says ‘Happy Hour – 6 to 7pm’. But there’s no happy time here anymore.
After a delicious dinner of grilled dorado and rice, I retire to my Maloudje bungalow for an early night. Sleep comes easy listening to the rustle of coconut palms and the tranquil swishing of the sea.
Comoros is famous for the coelacanth and local fishermen have accidentally caught several species while using deepwater hand-line methods to target oil fish, which live at a similar depth.
Another event for which Comoros is remembered is the aeroplane crash in November 1996. An Ethiopian Airlines 767 from Addis Ababa to Nairobi was hijacked and ran out of fuel before it crashed just past the reef off Le Galawa Hotel, killing 125 people. Footage of the crash was broadcast around the world after a tourist sitting on the beach videotaped the moment of impact.
Another who witnessed the disaster was Joseph Plombier, a member of staff at the hotel. “It was mid afternoon and I was cleaning the pool when I heard an aeroplane flying really low. I looked up and saw it swoop to one side before a wing hit the water and it flipped over, breaking into pieces. Many tourists watched it all happen and most started crying. Some of us paddled out in galawa’s to try rescue the passengers who were still alive. There was bodies and baggage floating everywhere but I managed to save a few people, including an American man and his family. It was a day I’ll never forget,” recalls Joseph, as he shows me the metal aircraft sign he retrieved from the wreck.
After a lazy morning on the beach, I get talking to Papa Idari, a young man who used to work as a self-employed tour guide taking guests around the island. Idari now scrapes together a meagre income selling T-shirts and shells.
“Assoumani is a bad leader, he only cares about himself and most people in Comoros hate him,” says Idari bitterly, his anger and frustration clearly showing. “Another problem we have is all the rubbish left lying around. A few years ago it got so bad that there was an outbreak of cholera at a market in Moroni.”
Idari stands up and looks out to sea, sadly shaking his head. “This could be a wonderful country. We have an active volcano, rainforests, tropical beaches, coral reefs and welcoming people. But there are no tourists, no jobs and prices keep increasing. Last week a kilogram of rice went up from CF 200 to CF 350. One day, when a new government comes into power, maybe things will change. But even though it is difficult for us, we still want to live here. This is our home.”

It’s my final day in Comoros. Initially I had planned to spend two weeks and travel across to the islands of Moheli and Anjouan. But from all accounts, the situation there is more dismal than on Grand Comore. I’ve seen enough despondency and sadness so I’m heading back early to Zanzibar.
The day after I leave, a mass demonstration is planned for Moroni to protest against the government. Hopefully political progress will materialize soon so life can start to improve for this nation of friendly souls.

In December 2003, President Thabo Mbeki visited Comoros where he convened a meeting between Union President Azali Assoumani and the leaders of the three autonomous islands. An agreement was signed to bring into effect power-sharing arrangements and a provisional customs council was established to oversee and control the collection and distribution of revenues. A general election was held in April 2004 but the situation is still unsettled.