Mayotte logbook: a strange sense of carefreeness, just hours before disaster struck
As the severity of Cyclone Chido was announced, the people of Mayotte were ill-prepared for the impact. Caught up in this tragedy, Fahad Idaroussi Tsimanda, a geographer specializing in natural hazards, attempts to understand the mindset of the people and the failings of the state.
His logbook provides us with an hour-by-hour account of the disaster. Part One.
Fahad Idaroussi Tsimanda, University of Montpellier
Thursday, December 12
For the past five days, various reports about the cyclone have been circulating on social media. Forecasts predict that Chido will pass over the island of Mayotte, and as the hours go by, the severity of its intensity becomes clearer, raising fears of considerable human and material damage. The prefecture and the president of the departmental council have spoken to the media to inform the population of the danger posed by the phenomenon. They are calling on residents to be cautious, to reinforce the roofs of their houses, to shelter their animals, to avoid taking unnecessary risks, and to stock up on supplies such as food, water, and candles.
As a geography teacher, I then received a message from the Mayotte school board informing me that we would not be working on Saturday in high schools and other educational institutions due to the threat.
As a geography teacher specializing in natural hazards, I am 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 located on unstable slopes or in flood-prone areas, are particularly at risk.
Friday, December 13
I start the day by going to fetch straw in Maevarano, in the hills west of Acoua, the village where I live, nestled in a volcanic cirque northwest of Mayotte. I spend the next five hours in the countryside ensuring the safety and provisioning of my goats, sheep, geese, and ducks during the crisis. I then drive to the center of the island to buy some food for my young child and packs of water.
I know that my house, built with cinder blocks and concrete and equipped with a securely anchored roof, keeps me relatively safe from danger. There are no informal structures in my neighborhood. However, not far away, on the heights of Acoua (in Marovato, Mronipopo, and Tsimitohy) and in several localities in the municipalities of Bandraboua, Koungou, and Mamoudzou, slums 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 go to the shelters?
In 2019, following the passage of cyclones Kenneth and Belna, some migrants from the slums of Kawéni (in the Mamoudzou metropolitan area, editor's note) refused to be evacuated, mainly for fear of being robbed. Will the shelters, which are often undersized, be able to accommodate everyone?
With just a few hours to go before the cyclone hits, residents and municipal authorities do not seem to be taking the threat very seriously. No one is rushing to the supermarkets to stock up on supplies, and no one is crowding gas stations to fill up their tanks.
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, which form in the east, end their course in Madagascar, thus sparing Mayotte, located to the west. Furthermore, for many years, security and migration issues, as well as purchasing power issues, have been at the forefront. Few people have learned to seriously prepare for the risks posed by cyclones.
Here, documents such as the municipal safety plan (PCS) – enabling town halls to organize rescue operations – and the municipal information document on major risks (DICRIM) – intended for prevention and raising awareness among residents – are not up to date, when they exist at all. Often poorly drafted, they have never been tested. Of the 16 municipalities exposed to tsunami risk, only the municipality of Chirongui has marked its refuge areas with signs to inform residents of places where they can gather in the event of a tsunami.
In several towns such as Acoua, Mtsamboro, and Bandraboua, no tree pruning has been carried out. In the municipality of Acoua, the municipal police patrol all day long to inform the population about the issues surrounding this phenomenon and the right actions to take, using audio messages broadcast via megaphone. Unfortunately, it is difficult to hear what is being said, even a few meters away from the vehicle. For those who live several meters away from the road or in areas where vehicles cannot circulate, the message is completely inaudible.
Saturday, December 14
Since 10 p.m. the night before, Mayotte has been on red alert for a cyclone. Theoretically, no one is allowed to go outside. However, life seems to be continuing as usual, with people out and about going about their business and appearing largely unconcerned.
Early in the morning, the island goes on purple alert. I stay at home in Acoua with my family. Between 6 a.m. and 9 a.m., it rains but there is no wind. Despite the seriousness of the situation, I hear people walking outside; on social media, several people are being ironic about the events: according to them, the island is on purple cyclone alert when nothing is happening.
At 9 a.m., the first gusts of wind can be heard. The poorly secured metal sheets used as fences bang together or rub against the walls of houses. The telephone network and electricity are cut off. The wind picks up and brings rain, the metal sheets continue to dance and damage cars parked beside the roads. Other projectiles, such as pieces of rafters and stones, fly through the air.
Between approximately 10:30 and 11:30 a.m., the eye of the storm passes over Mayotte. Although the winds die down, the sky temporarily clears, and the sea calms, this period is deceptive. It is crucial to remain sheltered. Through the glass windows, I see adults, including a deputy mayor, going out into the streets to observe and film the damage, with a surprisingly relaxed attitude.
At around 11:20 a.m., suddenly, the wind returns with unprecedented violence. People who were still outside were caught off guard and rushed to their homes or neighbors' houses to take shelter. Metal sheets were blown several meters into the air and electrical cables were torn down. This second phase of the cyclone ended around 12:30 p.m., after an hour of terror.
At around 4 p.m., I decide to go outside to see the damage. On the hillsides, from the south-southeast to the north-northwest, the green landscape that the village once knew has disappeared. The few trees still standing, mainly mango trees, have had their branches torn off. How long will it take for the jackfruit, coconut, and other fruit trees to regain their vigor and bear fruit again? The village of Acoua is literally disfigured, like a plucked Mayotte rooster. In the streets, sheets of metal, branches, and overturned trash cans lie on the ground, blocking the passage of cars. Courtyards have been destroyed and the roofs of some houses, including those of my relatives (uncles, aunts, etc.), have been torn off by the wind.
I decide to take my motorcycle to check on my livestock. The building that housed my animals has been destroyed by the force of the wind. On the way back, I learn that the roof of a hut has fallen on a woman in her fifties, killing her instantly. How many victims will there be in the slums? Hundreds? Thousands?
I'm going home, hoping that we will be strong in the face of this ordeal.
Fahad Idaroussi Tsimanda, Geographer, Associate Researcher at LAGAM, University of Montpellier, University of Montpellier
This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Readthe original article.