everyone has a plan: part two

The Russian Invasion of Madagascar

You ought to read last week's story first in order to understand this one, but here's a summary...

In 2002 I travelled around many islands in the Indian Ocean, supposedly making a television documentary about 17th century piracy. One thing obsessed me: the idea of re-enacting a historical pirate attack at sea. In the rundown port of Mahajanga, on the west coast of Madagascar, I thought I'd found the right place. The locals were still building, and sailing, wooden galleons based on the kind of Portuguese caravels that had first arrived there in 1500. Unfortunately my arrival coincided with rumours of a potential coup d'état backed by Russian money and mercenaries. As tensions heightened, I made contact with the mysterious local, Max, and that contact began to attract suspicion. Was he a gunrunner and drug smuggler, or simply an unconventional jack-of-all-trades? There were also tensions with the film's director, Yulia, although not with amenable cameraman, Ken. Yulia seemed blissfully unaware of the political intrigue, the importance of filming permission, or the suspicions that her links with Russia might bring down on us. Then one morning a grim-faced soldier banged on my hotel door and I was arrested.

Down in hotel reception are a group of soldiers and a commander wearing a kepi. "You come with me. Which room for the woman?"

I knock on Yulia's door. "You'd better come down - we have a problem."

When she gets to reception and sees the unsmiling soldiers, she starts waving her hands. "No, no. I'm not going with them."

"Yes," the officer insists sternly, "For checking paperwork and interrogation."

One of the soldiers cocks his rifle and she starts crying. I appeal to the officer. "Come on, this is not good. There's no need for this. We'll come and answer anything. We've nothing to hide."

Yulia calms down. They seem to have forgotten about our cameraman, Ken. At that moment the two Russian hotel guests, the ones I'd been thinking were mercenaries, come in from the street. One of them strolls straight over to me and grabbing my hand, shakes it, saying, "Dobroye utro." The soldiers watch stony-faced. I am non-plussed. Why has he done that? We haven't ever exchanged words and now he makes a great display of friendliness? The last thing I need is any visible Russian connections.

We are marched down the street to the gendarmerie which is only a hundred yards away. Then we are led through to an office. There's a table with a cup and some school exercise books. On the walls is a framed certificate, announcing the officer's qualification as a paratroop commander. Pinned next to it is Madagascar's 'most wanted' list: mugshots and brief descriptions. Our names are not on it - not yet.

In front of us are the officer and another man, in plain clothes, unsmiling and silent. "So you speak Russian?" the officer asks me.

"No."

"But you have Russian friends at the hotel?"

"I don't know them."

He turns to Yulia, flicking through her passport. "You visit Russia many times?"

"Yes, I've spent time there. It's lovely. I'll take you one day."

She has gone from tears to tease in the time of that hundred-yard walk. What will she say next?

"And you know the woman, Svetlana, who works in the hotel casino?"

Yulia tosses her head. "Oh, she's just some prostitute from Moscow."

We work through all their concerns. We are not spies or mercenaries. We are not planning to invade Madagascar. We are documentary filmmakers with an interest in historical pirates.

"Like Max?"

"He's just helping organise our film shoot."

Eventually a statement is typed out and we sign, then we are marched back to the hotel.

"You will stay here and not leave. There will be soldiers guarding you. Do not attempt to escape."

They are contacting the goverment in Tana before they decide what to do. Political tension is at screaming point. Everyone is waiting for the ex-president to invade - with the assistance of Russian mercenaries.

By the pool I telephone my sister who lives in South Africa. Can she help? Didn't I once meet the Madagascan consul at her place? She tells me that he is a friend, but only an ex-consul. She will ring him. Perhaps he knows someone useful.

That night in my room, there is a light tapping at my door. It's Max. He pushes inside, and with a quick glance to check he hasn't been seen, closes the door.

"I climbed the wall," he says, "There are soldiers everywhere. Today they shot someone in the street - killed him. It's mad."

I explain our predicament.

"I know all about it," he says, "The whole town knows. Look, get your stuff. We can climb over the wall and get down to my boat. The water tanks are full, there's plenty of food. We'll slip out the harbour and sail for Zanzibar."

For a second I imagine that scenario. The thrill of a midnight escape does have its attractions. "But I can't abandon Ken and Yulia."

He grins wolfishly. "Ken can come too, but not the woman."

“We can’t abandon her.”

He frowns and rubs his stubbled head. "You're crazy. This situation, I mean, we need to get out." He pulls up his tee-shirt and removes a pistol from his waistband. "At least take this - it's loaded and you're going to need it."

"No!" We start a silent, slow motion, comedy struggle: he attempting to push the gun into my waistband, me to fend him off. The gun falls to the floor with an enormous crash, chipping a tile. We both stare at it, thanking the gods that it didn't go off. Max picks it up. "I'm telling you, they're gonna lock you up and throw the key. Don't you understand? They want money - a lot of it. You're gonna be here until someone pays. That's how it works. I came here two years ago and bought a bit of land, then they all started gossiping about where that money came from. Next thing I'm a gun runner and drug smuggler. Better we just get out."

He flops down on the bed with a sigh. I am conscious that in the same minute that he has denied being a gun runner, he has conjured up a revolver.

"It'd suit me to go too. Ten days, maybe a bit more, into Zanzibar. Or we hide out in the smaller islands to the south, do some fishing."

Eventually Max leaves, still bemused by my unwillingness to run the gauntlet of armed soldiers, sneak into the port, and set sail.

Next morning my sister rings. "The ex-consul doesn’t think he can help much, but he's phoning some old contacts."

We all sit by the pool, waiting. Charles, the hotel owner is pacing up and down, a cigarette smouldering in his hand. It's important to him that we are innocent, otherwise he's tarnished by association. They will say he's been harbouring criminals. News arrives that the mayor of Mahajanga, who had been in Tana, has arrived and taken control of the situation. There's a suggestion that we go to him, but Charles is adamant that this is a bad idea. "Why? Only to vex 'im? Don't you understand? It must be the president himself who has ordered your detention. No one else would dare touch foreigners. Now you must sit still and count your money because that is where this will end. I myself have spent ten million in bribes to keep my business going and when I get it back I am off... zoom... gone.. finish... back to Paris! I tell you zis place... Pah!"

Then at midday, we notice the guards on the gate who had been slouching in the shade, suddenly stand to attention. The mayor himself has arrived. He is a huge fat man, his neck shiny with gold chains, his wrist ticking with Rolex. Yulia appears in a very short and revealing leopard print chiffon dress, a strange choice considering her earlier comment about Svetlana. From that moment onwards, the mayor's eyes never leave her. Charles ushers everyone to a table and drinks are brought out. The mayor does not know whether to look down Yulia's dress, or up it, so settles on both.

"What we have is a very serious situation," he says sombrely, "I have a document from our Minister of the Interior." He pauses, then leans towards Yulia, taking a long unabashed look down her cleavage. "He has given permission to make your film."

Ken and I let out gasps of delight.

"Tomorrow I will send three guards: one from the police, one from the army, and one from customs - for your safety."

After some more ogling at Yulia, he leaves.

That night I meet Max and we go to the two wooden ships in the harbour, rowing out in darkness. There's a gleam of coals in the fire by the foremast, the murmur of low voices, the creak of rigging as the mast tips gently swing across a star-lit sky. We sit on deck and explain to the captains, Djadjari and Rearison: one ship will be an Indian merchant vessel, the other a European pirate. They will sail towards each other and we will set off a lot of smoke bombs. When they are beside each other, the 'pirates' will board the Indian vessel and there will be a mock fight.

They love the idea but have one significant question. "My friend, your plan is a good one except we are all dark-skinned people. How can we pretend to be European pirates?"

Later, as we walk back through the quiet town, I realise they are right: we need European-looking pirates. We stop at the tailor who I'm commissioning to run up some costumes. I try to explain what a Jolly Roger is. He starts sewing.

Next morning at dawn, I am back on the quayside. The two boats are ready. Yulia has refused to pay for food, but I've commissioned Max's friend anyway. He turns up with plates of samosas and sandwiches and everyone eats while Yulia grumbles, "I'm not paying for this." The tailor appears with a cardboard box filled with colourful costumes.

Charles appears and announces that his friend, Jacques, will donate a speedboat so that our camera can circle the sea battle. Can we buy the fuel? I don't even ask Yulia, just hand over my last few dollars. Our Indian crew are delighted with their colourful clothes and the sandwiches, but there is no sign of Max.

One of the captains takes me aside. "I think they have arrested him."

The sun becomes hot. Yulia is getting angry.

And then a battered Renault Five comes screeching along the quayside. Max emerges, in full pirate costume, followed by Svetlana and the two Russian 'mercenaries', also in costume. they are carrying a motley assortment of knives, swords and hatchets. Max opens the car boot and takes out a box: he's made a treasure chest. "Pirates must have treasure!"

Our two crews prepare. The Malagasy sailors are given some colourful silks to wrap around themselves. Thanks to Max, we have a European pirate crew, and even better, most of them are probably actual pirates.

The ships themselves are the real stars. Without engines, they are towed by rowing boats then raise their sails. Out in the bay, the two captains expertly manoeuvre so that the ships plunge towards each other through the swell. I sit behind Ken on the speedboat and watch. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Max and the Russians seem to know how pirates should behave. They swing on ropes with ease, chucking themselves across the gap onto the other ship then overpowering the 'Indians' with great battle cries (slightly Slavic-sounding but who cares?), then seizing the 'treasure chest'. The improvised smoke bombs work perfectly, hiding all the imperfections. Ken jumps aboard for all his B Roll: the cutaways and close-ups.

That night we celebrate, although Yulia is no longer speaking to me. I paid each sailor a few dollars for his efforts and she had not agreed to that.

In the morning, I'm sitting out by the pool having breakfast, feeling quite smug, when Max rushes in. The mayor has been attacked by a mob and made to grovel for forgiveness in front of the town hall. Suddenly all the anxiety is back. Will we be able to leave? With our film? Yulia appears in a very mini denim dress. "It doesn't matter. I'm ruined. All the money is gone. There's nothing left. We have no film."

By afternoon, more news arrives. The mayor is restored, the miscreants under arrest. We must visit him. At the gate, the army officer appears, "Kevin - is there a souvenir for me?"

I hold out my hands. "We have nothing."

The Town Hall is a large 1960s building with sweeping staircases and large folk art murals. The mayor is behind a huge desk laden with sporting trophies and banners although the man himself does not strike me as a sportsman. He greets Yulia enthusiastically and me coldly. He is wearing loafers without socks, a short-sleeved shirt and shorts along with all his gold jewellery. His skin, teeth and clothes are also all gold. He is Goldfinger. Is it possible he was only recently roughed up?

Yulia is effusive in thanks and he ogles her voraciously. I mutter to her, "Be careful. He's after you."

I think, until that moment, it had not occurred to her that his motives might not be innocent. Like lightning she crosses her legs, clasping her knees with white knuckles. Her answers become shorter and unfriendly. The mayor slowly gets the message.

Eventually we leave Mahajanga and part ways. Yulia is unfriendly with me too. I never hear what happens. I fly to South Africa and meet up with my sister, and tell her the full story. "Thank God your friend helped out."

But she is bemused. "I'm not sure he did."

But didn't he ring his friend the Minister of Interior and smooth it all out?

"He didn't mention it."

And so the entire episode remains pretty much a mystery to me. The Russian invasion of Madagascar never happened, and I was never a part of it. The Russians in Mahajanga, whoever they were, went on with their business no doubt, buying up fake emeralds. Svetlana, prostitute or not, hopefully made enough money to look after her mother. Max disappeared, possibly to Zanzibar. Yulia dispensed with my assistance and we never spoke again. A few years later when I got another chance to make a film, I was a lot wiser. Yulia, to be fair, had taught me a few things: not to overspend, not to mess about with guns, not to involve reprobates - which was how I ended up in Yemen during a war with a pocket full of American dollar notes and 26 soldiers on my pay roll. But that is another story.

I have yet to find any photographs of this episode, although the search continues. Instead, all the pictures this week come from two lovely maps that I inherited from Russell Butler who died in 2022, a true lover of Africa and a wonderful man with the best kind of piratical tendencies. Obituary here.