Isalo

Route National 7 is perhaps the most interesting road I have ever traveled. It runs over 950 kilometers from the capital to the coastal city of Tulear in the deep south of Madagascar. In that span, this thin ribbon of pavement passes through some of the most diverse and interesting landscapes in Madagascar. Starting in the Central Plateau, the road curves up into the Irish-looking Betsileo Highlands, skirts the Eastern Rainforests near Ranomafana before passing though the beautiful city of Fianarantsoa. The highway then passes within view of the granite peaks of the Andringitra Mountains and spills onto the grassy rock studded hills of the Bara tribe. Past the town of Ihosy the landscape flattens into a brown plain that could rival any plains state for its apparent endlessness. Suddenly, however, sandstone peaks emerge from the semi-arid plane at the base of which glitters the boom-town of Ranohira (meaning ‘water song’ in Malagasy). This town and the National Park which towers over it in the cliffs were the destination of my most recent adventure.
Mark, my partner in fruit tree crime here in Ranomafana, and the organization he works for had made contact with a woman named Monique who is interested in using the organization Mark works for to start a fruit and native tree nursery at her hotel near Ranohira and Isalo National Park. Mark invited me to go down in his car with him and fellow volunteers Alison and Haley came along for the ride as well. We got the trip off on the right foot by stopping at a local winery and buying mildly alcoholic grape juice in old glass bottles from a street vendor for 45 cents a liter. Lacking cups, we drank to the journey straight from the bottle like a bunch of pirates.
Passing the valleys north of the Andringitra Mountains we drove though a Malagasy edition of the 8th plague, namely locust. They covered the sky like a thick black snow and passed over us in a heavy cloud. After lunching in Ihosy we emerged on the vast Bara Plains where vast swathes of the brown grasses were being burned to encourage new growth in the spring for cattle. Arriving at our destination in Ranohira, we checked into our hotel and began sorting out dinner. In a truly Peace Corps attempt to save a few bucks we had packed the entire gas tank and stove apparatus into the back of the car with my pots, pans, dishes, and all the ingredients to make a Szechwan stir fry. Although we were staying at one of the lower class establishments in Ranohira, the sight of four Americans huddled around a single dome light chopping carrots and green beans in the parking lot of the hotel restaurant still garnered a few judgmental glances from other guests.
We took advantage of the Sunday work siesta to find a guide and journey into Isalo National Park. One of the largest parks in Madagascar, Isalo boasts some of the most spectacular landscapes, plant life, and unparalleled beauty I have yet encountered in Madagascar. The arid cliff faces that give the park its panoramic drama are peppered with a squatty relative of the baobab tree that can live up to 500 years old and present a truly impressive display of bright yellow flowers. Descending from the high cliffs into the valleys one finds themselves in a lush forest fed by natural springs emanating from the center of the park. These modest creeks cut canyons hundreds of feet deep creating deep clear pools of water that just begs to be cannon balled into by hot and sweaty hikers. These low valleys are the perfect home for all sorts of rare plants including palms and pandanis that grow into sizes and heights I had heretofore considered impossible. There are also large populations of lemur that inhabit these Eden-like microhabitats. Our peaceful picnic of packed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches was crashed by two troops of Ring Tailed and Brown lemurs. It was all we could do to keep these ostentatious primates out of our food. When shooing them like chickens produced few results my beleaguered comrades and I tried to box the invaders off the table. In the end the assailants got off with a cracker and a banana peel and we got some neat pictures out of the ordeal.
Meanwhile, our entreats to meet with Monique were coming to nothing. Ignoring the itinerary she had e-mailed us in days previous she had flow to Paris and would not be back until after our group was leaving. Facing the complete failure of the ‘business’ portion of our trip, the elderly proprietress of our hotel recommended we go and meet M. Bernie. She made a few phone calls and arranged for this ‘Bernie’ to swing by and take us to his orchards on the morrow. Once arrangements had been finalized, the old hotel owner began making strange foreboding comments about our pending visit. “Well you know how Bernie doesn’t like people on his property sometimes… He doesn’t speak any English… Well, whatever the case your visit will certainly be interesting!”
Bernie screeched to a stop in front of our hotel at 9 AM the following morning in an oddly shaped white pick-up crammed with some mysterious irrigation equipment. A shockingly old man in a trucker hat was behind the wheel listening to piano show tunes at a level clearly audible from a solid 20 meters away. He stuck his head out the window, yelled something in French to our driver, sounded off his clown-car horn, and we were off. Bernie’s estate is on the boarder of the park where he owns 100 hectares of arid grassland and rock. There is one small oasis some distance from the paved road where Bernie was presently leading us. Upon our arrival, Bernie leaped from the truck and greeted each of us in Malagasy with a firm handshake. He was wearing knee-length rubber waders and a pair of tiny white shorts that displayed a surprisingly generous amount of thigh. Born in Madagascar in 1926, Bernie was on his 5th wife (the most recent of 15 years) had learned French and some eight different Malagasy dialects but had never learned English thus we would spend the entire visit talking with this Frenchmen in Malagasy. Once we introduced ourselves he looked me straight in the face and asked me if I was Catholic. I fumbled through an explanation alluding to my Catholic university years, but he interrupted me to point out a statue of the virgin up on the rocks. If I was Catholic, Bernie declared, I could say a prayer to her, if I wasn’t I could say a prayer anyway but I would have to pay him for it. I gave him a perplexed look and he erupted in a peal of laughter.
After he learned that we were Peace Corps volunteers interested in fruit trees his deeply tanned face lit up and he took off into his orchard gesticulating heavily telling us to follow. For the next 45 minutes we struggled to keep up with this loquacious octogenarian as he hopped from tree to tree pointing out his seemingly unreal grafting abilities. He also demonstrated for us some of his truly innovative methods for making pots out of pounded earth and his expansive gardening facilities. He was continually cracking jokes in Malagasy and continued lecturing us on his projects until he suddenly got back into his car, told us he was off to Tulear (some 200k away), and left us in a dazed cloud of dust. Somewhere between the jokes, excited jabbering, and solid advice Bernie gave us permission to hike around his beautiful property which we did enthusiastically for about 40 minutes before our hungry stomachs forced us to retreat for lunch.
This week I am doing a big training at my house for 16 farmers with SAF/FJKM. I also would like to point out that I have not received any mail at my ranomafana address since July so I fear that my mail is no longer operating here. My Antananarivo address is still working.