Mayotte logbook: a strange carefree attitude just hours before the disaster
**Although the severity of Cyclone Chido was predicted, the Mahorais were ill-prepared for the shock. Caught up in this tragedy, geographer Fahad Idaroussi Tsimanda, a specialist in natural hazards, attempts to understand the mentality and failings of the state.
His log gives us an hour-by-hour account of the disaster. Part 1.
Fahad Idaroussi Tsimanda, University of Montpellier
Thursday, December 12
For the past five days, information about the cyclone has been circulating on social networks. Forecasts were announcing the passage of "Chido" over the island of Mayotte, and as the hours went by, the severity of its intensity became clearer, raising fears of considerable human and material damage. The Prefecture and the President of the Departmental Council took to the media to inform the population of the dangerous nature of the phenomenon. They called on residents to be cautious, to reinforce the roofs of their homes, to shelter their animals, to avoid taking unnecessary risks and to stock up on food, water, candles, etc.
As a geography teacher, I then received a message from the Mayotte education authority, informing me that we would not be working on Saturday in high schools and other educational establishments, due to the threat.
As a geography teacher specializing in natural hazards, I'm well aware of the impact Chido could have on the island. The cyclone threatens infrastructure, but also, and above all, human lives. Residents of precarious neighborhoods, often built on unstable slopes or flood-prone areas, are particularly at risk.
Friday, December 13
I start the day by fetching straw from Maevarano, on the western slopes of Acoua, the village where I live, nestled in a volcanic cirque in the northwest of Mayotte. I spend the next five hours in the countryside to ensure the safety and supply of my goats, sheep, geese and ducks during the crisis. I then set off towards the center of the island to buy some rations for my young child and packs of water.
I know that my house, built with cinder blocks and concrete, and equipped with a solidly anchored roof, makes me relatively safe from danger. There are no informal settlements in my neighbourhood. However, not far away, on the heights of Acoua (in Marovato, Mronipopo and Tsimitohy) and in several localities in the communes of Bandraboua, Koungou and Mamoudzou, shanty towns are home to thousands of people living in makeshift shelters made of sheet metal, wood and salvaged tarpaulins. Will they be evacuated in time? Will they agree to follow the authorities' instructions and head for the shelters?
In 2019, following the passage of cyclones Kenneth and Belna, some migrants in the shantytowns of Kawéni (in the Mamoudzou conurbation, editor's note) refused to be evacuated, notably for fear of being robbed. Will the often undersized shelters be able to accommodate everyone?
With the cyclone just hours away, residents and municipal authorities don't seem to be taking the threat very seriously. No one is rushing to the supermarkets to stock up, no one is rushing to the service stations to fill up with petrol.
In Mayotte, there is a long-standing belief that the island will always be protected by the natural barrier of Madagascar. In this region, most cyclones form in the east and end up in Madagascar, sparing Mayotte to the west. Moreover, for many years now, security and migration issues, as well as purchasing power, have been at the forefront. Few people have learned to prepare seriously for the risks posed by cyclones.
Here, documents such as the Plan Communal de Sauvegarde (PCS) - enabling town halls to organize rescue operations - and the Document d'Information Communal sur les Risques Majeures (DICRIM) - aimed at prevention and raising awareness among residents - are not up to date, where they exist at all. Often poorly drafted, they have never been tested. Of the 16 communes at risk from tsunamis, only the commune of Chirongui has marked out its refuge areas with signs informing residents where they can gather in the event of a tsunami.
In several localities, such as Acoua, Mtsamboro and Bandraboua, no tree pruning has been carried out. In the commune of Acoua, the municipal police are on the move throughout the day to inform the population about the stakes involved in this phenomenon and the right thing to do, via sound messages broadcast through a megaphone. Unfortunately, you can hardly hear what's being said, even from a few meters away from the vehicle. For those who live several meters from the road or in areas where vehicles are not allowed, the message is totally inaudible.
Saturday, December 14th
Since 10 p.m. the previous day, Mayotte has been under a cyclonic red alert. Theoretically, no one is allowed outside. However, life seems to be going on as usual: people are outside, going about their business and seemingly unconcerned.
Very early in the morning, the island goes on violet alert. I confine myself and my family to my home in Acoua. Between 6 a.m. and 9 a.m., it rained but didn't sell. Despite the seriousness of the situation, I can hear people walking around outside; on social networks, several people make fun of the events: according to them, the island has been placed under a violet cyclone alert even though nothing is happening.
At 9 a.m., the first gales are heard. Loose metal fencing clatters and rubs against house walls. The telephone network and electricity were cut off. The wind gains in intensity and brings rain, while the metal sheets continue to dance, damaging cars parked alongside the roads. Other projectiles, such as pieces of rafters and pebbles, are flying about.
Between around 10:30 and 11:30, the eye of the cyclone crosses Mayotte. Although the winds cease, the sky brightens temporarily and the sea calms, this period is deceptive. It's crucial to stay out of harm's way. Through the glass windows, I can see adults, including a deputy mayor, coming out into the streets to observe and film the damage, with a surprisingly relaxed attitude.
At around 11.20am, the wind suddenly returned with unprecedented force. People who had remained outside were taken by surprise, and rushed to their homes or those of their neighbors for shelter. Metal sheets flew several meters into the air, and electrical cables were ripped out. This second phase of the cyclone came to an end at around 12.30pm, an hour's scare.
Around 4 p.m., I decided to go out and see the damage. On the heights, from south-southeast to north-northwest, the verdant landscape the village once knew has disappeared. The few remaining trees, mainly mango, have had their branches torn off. How long will it be before the jackfruit, coconut and other fruit trees regain their vigor and bear fruit again? The village of Acoua is literally disfigured, like a plucked rooster. In the streets, metal sheets, branches and overturned garbage cans lie in the way, blocking the passage of cars. Yards are destroyed and the roofs of some houses, including those of my relatives (uncles, aunts, etc.), have been blown off.
I then decided to take my motorcycle to see the state of my farm. The building housing my animals had been blown away by the wind. On the way back, I learn that the roof of a hut has fallen on a lady in her fifties, killing her instantly. How many victims will there be in the slums? Hundreds? Thousands?
I'm going home, hoping that we'll be able to stand strong in the face of this ordeal.
Fahad Idaroussi Tsimanda, Geographer, researcher at LAGAM, University of Montpellier, University of Montpellier
This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read theoriginal article.