The Comoros consist of three islands: Grande Comore, Mohéli, and Anjouan, each with a capital ending in “i”: Moroni, Fomboni, Ouani. Tourism there is sparse. When I landed, I was the only tourist at the airport. In 2004, Anjouan was in secession under its “dictator,” Mohammed Bacar. But the Comoros are not the Middle East. In the Comoros, as often in Africa, people laugh and debate endlessly. And in debates, the Comorians are true masters.
Men adorn themselves to go to the mosque. The making of kufi hats embroidered with gold thread takes months for the women assigned to the task. These headdresses allow those who have been to Mecca to be recognized and to boast; everyone competes to have the most beautiful one.
Grande Comore takes shape around its volcano. The sea is stunningly transparent in its rocky bays, with fine sand and radiant skies. Its villages of ancient stone breathe eternity… Yet… garbage litters the landscape. The sea throws back tons of plastic waste. In the very capital, people relieve themselves around the port. It is no one’s concern. There is no work, and logically, no one works. Not much happens in the Comoros. The islands are dotted with roofless houses, useless stubs financed without clear purpose by Comorians living abroad. The only true landmarks are the mosques.
Mohéli, the smallest of the islands, is timeless: boats are built there, fantastic metallic contraptions; a single road circles the island; bats hang in vast numbers from gigantic trees.
Almost useless islands, and yet unique… Beautiful, talkative, and vain—that is the impression one is tempted to give of the Comoros after only a week’s stay.