Memories of Majunga

Snapshot File - Memories of Majunga.

Majunga is a town on the north western side of Madagascar, near the northern end of the island.  Madagascar was either the first island God made and he learnt from his mistakes - or the last one and he used all the bits left over.  Majunga was a ramshackle town sat on a river estuary.  It had many buildings that looked French provincial - not surprising considering it had been a French colony.  The French killed 70,000 people in 1947 and they were not very popular with the locals.  The locals spoke French, which was a problem because we didn’t - being English.  

Majunga had an airfield.  It wasn’t very big, although an Air France Boeing 707 came in once a week, which must have been a heart-stopping experience for its pilots.  The Shackleton was OK, as long as it wasn’t too hot.  With a full fuel load, its usual state, it took every inch of the runway to get airborne.  There were usually 2 Shackletons and 3 crews based at Majunga, and their task was to log all the tankers in the Mozambique Straits.  We would fly down the straits to the frigate stationed off Beira, drop their mail to them, and fly back, logging all tankers heading south west.  We did this because the UK government wanted to stop oil reaching Rhodesia, which was in a state of rebellion against the Crown.  We couldn’t stop tankers unloading at Beira because it was Portuguese.  But if they were identified, pressure could be brought to bear on the companies that owned them.  It was all futile, because oil entered Rhodesia via South Africa.

We did 3 or 4 sorties per crew each week.  The Shackleton heaved itself into the sky at about 8 am.  We couldn’t go earlier because the locals were in bed instead of in the tower.  One morning we actually took off without local air traffic control or the fire service (Huggis!) . We flew down to Beira and dropped things to the frigate, then flew back.  It was a good idea to land before it got dark, as the locals packed up early.  To drop things to the frigate we used a gear called Lindholme.  This consisted of canisters that floated. One Christmas we announced we had their Christmas mail including a cake.  We dropped the canister and it sank.  We had filled it with stones!  After they had recovered, we dropped the real mail canister.  

On another occasion, the Navy were lowering their whaler to recover the Lindholme when it stuck.  So they launched a rib, and it’s engine failed.  So they threw the ship’s diver over the side and he swam to the Lindholme.  Happy that all was well we departed, only to get a call.  They had lost sight of their rib, could we find it?  We did and departed on our way.  

Life in Majunga was pretty basic.  The officers lived down in the town centre, but the SNCOs and the airmen lived out on the edge of town.  The airmen were in an ex-French army encampment - called the Camp Britannique.   The SNCOs lived nearby in a big house owned by the Mayor.  Which was pretty basic.  We had beds but our lockers and things were made out of orange boxes etc.  The food was also grotty.  We often feasted on  food which had been in storage in Aden for many years.  The cook did his best, but he was  on a hiding to nothing.  

The Maison de Maire depended on a well in the grounds for its water.  The pump was broke, so the fire brigade came up occasionally and filled the tanks in the roof.  The chief night spots were Madame’s, a brothel, and a night club that was in a converted garage.  The toilets in the night club were appalling, so you just walked over the road and pee’d over a small cliff.  I was doing that one night, when the guy next to me tried to light his cigarette off a distant lighthouse.  He fell over the cliff down onto the beach.  It was only about 20 feet and as he was drunk he landed like a baby.

I did four months in Majunga.  Two months from Singapore and two from the UK.  None of it was enjoyable.  The place itself was a miserable shambles created by the French.  There were quite a lot of Frenchmen around and they were uniformly unpleasant.  No wonder the Malagache hated them. We on the other hand, were cheered as we drove out to the airfield for another 12 hour flight.

On my second visit one of the other signallers had a project as part of his university degree course.  He got a detailed map of Majunga and we spent many happy hours wandering round identifying the usage of lots of tin shacks.