Faux Cap market
The stopover in Tsihombe finishes at four at night. The departure announced by the horn of the truck full of mango sacks, overflown by human bodies, bicycles that hang of the impossibilities. All, piled up obeyedly, according to precise guidelines, agreed and observed. Once the gathering of equipment and goods is concluded, we cross a dozen of kilometers, to be spit out in a crossroad, being therefore one more contribution to the spectacle of a Faux Cap weekly market. Mangos and drums of gasoline, tires, sweet potatoes and, coordinating us with the unloading of the sacks, are we.
Still the ephemeral freshness of the air, the bustle that, at the same time, bursts and breaks up at once due to the hot flushes that invade any sign of excitement. Backed by the glances that pretend not to insist we let the communication chances to sprout. Sat on huge roots of some tree we talk with the people lead more by the intuition and desire that by the linguistic understandings.
The track to Faux Cap is an endless corridor of dusty whiteness. The celestial abyss, like an merciless roadroller, snorts on us its ebbs of the heat. It is the country of the Antandroy and the thorns. Light lamba which we spread out over our heads as a parasol, cannot offer more than a small blow as it swings when we walk. The air is numb. The sand burns. Then greetings, children, name of the Cactus Hotel. That's enough. It is the middle of the day and the destination. The brightness stirrs the senses. And when the horizon inserts in between the dunes - the levitation - is the only occurrence when the look smashes into the immensity of the ocean.
