Alison

Earlier this month, Alison moved to town. Alison and I are both members of the now infamous “Niger Stage” of volunteers and is arguably my best friend on this oversized island. Her original site of Lopary could be euphemistically described as ‘poverty stricken’ and offered her no electricity, no latrines, few edible food products and even fewer work opportunities in the Environment sector. Together we made some fortuitous work contacts and well placed e-mails and earlier this month she moved up to replace Mark at the Friends of Madagascar house when he left in late May. Alison has already featured prominently in past bloggings, accompanying me for numerous vacations and commiserating with me on American holidays.
Our friendship over the past two years has been nurtured by thrifty text messaging deals on Malagasy cell phone carriers and a mutual penchant for sarcastic humor, practices only encouraged by our newfound proximity. Having a site partner in the Peace Corps can completely change the experience of being at site, and having Alison around has certainly done that for me. Suddenly I have someone to come with me on daily project activities, as well as assisting her on her initiatives. On a less professional level, I’m suddenly cooking a lot more meals for two and rediscovering my addiction to card games.
Having someone else around also results in rash and exciting group think. For instance, while I am not dumb enough to wander off into the rainforest by myself, I am certainly dumb enough to do it with someone else. In this spirit, Alison and I recently struck out from Ranomafana towards the forest with no particular objective, direction, or exit strategy in mind. We eventually discovered a mildly discernable path through the weeds and cassava fields which after and exhausting 45-minute climb led us up the mountains to the forest edge. We had entered the ring of semi-degraded forest that surrounds Ranomafana National Park. Completely open, unregulated, and unprotected, this area is open to anyone with enough stamina to drag themselves up the treacherous and unforgiving footpath Alison and I had just endured. It is also an excellent way to see the various methods of deforestation the Malagasy have developed to plunder the forest’s resources.
As far as I can tell, there are three main methods to this madness. The first is tavy, exhaustively described in a previous post, it consists of merrily chopping every living thing to pieces, baking it all in the tropical sun for a few weeks and setting the resulting pile of brush on fire. What remains is a good amount of ash, a clear place to plant and nothing resembling a forest. Deforestation type-2, or as I like to call it “banana tavy” is designed specifically for the cultivation of this yellow phallic fruit. All of the forest under story, including but not limited too tree ferns, screwpalms, hardwood saplings, orchids, palms, and other such plants of little interest, are laid waste and left to rot on the ground and hold in moisture for the precious banana plants that are scattered sporadically about. The largest trees are often left orphaned in a sea of pale-leafed bananas. Finally there is selective logging, where specific trees are removed for lumber rather than burned on site. The forest giants are felled by hand and slowly dismembered and carried people’s backs down the mountain trails to town. Evidence of this activity is revealed when the forest trail opens up on a gradually decaying pile coffee saucer-sized woodchips and a conspicuous hole in the forest canopy.
Alison and I witnessed all these fascinating variations as our trail wound deeper into the forest. However, after a few hundred meters, our trail began to dissipate and the phrase “I think it’s this way” became an acceptable term of navigation. The ground foliage oscillated between dense and oppressive. We scaled a sharp incline caked decaying leaf litter in order to escape a marshy valley only to literally fall into a patch sticky briars which attached themselves in the thousands to our hair, clothes, and skin by the thousands. Seeking relief we came upon a clearing of the ubiquitous selective-logging chips and took ten minutes to clean the curiously oily briars from our persons as well as evict the small colonies of leeches that had collected around our socks.
Tired, scratched, and discouraged we decided to cut our losses and head back having failed to see much more than a lot of green leaves. We quickly realized, however, that we were quite securely lost and even if we could retrace our steps, we weren’t sure we wanted to. I eventually acquiesced to Alison’s suggestion that we just keep moving downhill, a strategy which on more than one occasion had us both gracefully falling on our butts and scooting down the mountain. After nearly inflicting upon myself a serious life-changing injury by placing my weight on a thick log which turned out to have the approximate consistency of papier-mâché, we emerged on a rushing stream cascading down the mountain.
The scene that greeted us was, perhaps, the most beautiful forest scene I have even seen on this island. The stream came clamoring over the moss carpeted boulders into in an endless chain of small waterfalls broken up by deep cold pools of pristine water. The branches of surrounding trees leaned in over the river’s banks creating an emerald tunnel pierced everywhere by bright streaks of light. We panted standing on a deep green boulder with a commanding view while I fumbled with my camera. The picture was intensely underwhelming. Never before has my camera so resolutely failed to capture a desired scene. Undismayed we clamored down the slippery rocks and were confronted over and over again with scenes of stunning beauty. There were more subtle shades of green in a single scene than I heretofore thought existed and the limits of digital photography with a hand held camera were unceasingly evident. We followed the stream down exceedingly dangerous rocks, crisscrossing its path in search of the route least likely to kill us until we at last reached a deep deluge that forced us to seek other means or decent.
Striking off the river we soon emerged on a massive patch of fresh ‘banana tavy.’ My camera had no trouble with the abundant shades of brown, tan, black, and sickly yellow. We also got a chance to see a bunch of shade loving orchids left high in the remaining trees to bake in the unforgiving sun. One happy consequence of clear cutting natural underbrush is that the plants that emerge in the aftermath are usually covered in thorns and spines which enthusiastically tore at my exposed legs until they bled. We eventually discovered a descending trail and emerged in the rice paddies surrounding Ranomafana, both agreeing that our hike was both one of the most exciting, but also one of the least intelligent things we had ever done.

Cloud 9

Who ever developed the adage that ‘living on cloud 9’ to describe a place of blissful joy and happiness was either being facetious or was criminally ignorant of the nature of clouds. When viewed from a distance, clouds can take many forms, almost always some variation on fluffy. However, when one comes and parks itself where you are trying to live, clouds reveal their true malignant permutations.
Clouds are basically just floating sponges of cold miserable wetness that lumber around harmlessly in the sky. When, however, one sinks to the ground it spreads around like a cold damp plague spreading gloom and despair throughout its environs. The clouds that move on Ranomafana every winter are nothing like the morning fogs that hamper American school systems with 2-hour-delays every odd month. Clouds here mimic a heavy, slow motion drizzle whose water droplets suspend themselves in the air, taking on a quality more like snow than rain. This lingering, air-like quality allows these wretched clouds to permeate into buildings, cars, and warm-weather clothing. Roofs and other such devices designed to insulate humanity from the forces of weather are rendered useless by the cloud’s moist terror. Everything gets damp. This is the kind of weather is what causes black rashes of mold to infest my t-shirts, dank bed sheets, and perpetually wet hair.
Yesterday inaugurated cloud season in Ranomafana with a particularly thick cloud that festered for a full 24-hours, putting a sour ending on what had been a wonderful couple of weeks. I had somehow managed to lasso Peace Corps, Centre Valbio, Madagascar National Parks, and 8 other volunteers into a painting project decorating the new visitor’s center for Ranomafana National Park. Further commentary on this particular event will have to wait until a time when I am no longer required to be diplomatic towards certain members of local government. After work was completed, I was obligated to leave for the capital and take an exam that holds particular importance for my intended career path. Standing by the roadside waiting for yet another semi-functional taxi van to come chugging up the hill to bear me away, I was overcome by a strange and unfamiliar sensation. I didn’t want to leave.
Ditching site for the big cities is the dream of every volunteer. Cities have stores that sell such fabulous luxuries like mayonnaise, boxed cereals, and even pizza. Peace Corps transit houses in Fianarantsoa, Tana, or Diego, can always be counted on to be sheltering at least one other sympathetic soul looking to go out and gossip over a beer or two. When searching for some alone time, these heavenly houses are wired with internet, hot water, ovens, and thick mattresses. Volunteers will usually make any excuse to get approval from the PC to get in for just one extra night. Why then was I, approved for almost a week of business and medical leave, bemoaning my golden ticket?
There are a number of possible explanations. Perhaps the nauseating 8.5 hour taxi brousse ride that one volunteer’s mother recently described at “worse than childbirth” was dissuading me. It could be the thought of the plateau’s notoriously frigid weather this time of year. However, I tend towards a much more dramatic, much more alarming conclusion. Ranomafana finally has become home for me.
Since I closed up shop in Holland at the impressionable age of 18, I have not been ‘at home’ in any place I have settled. It was a spell the sprawling city of Cincinnati was never able to cast on me during my semesters there. My stays in Paris and the enchanting country of Turkey proved to brief for me to even unpack everything from my suitcase much less establish myself emotionally. However, now after 21 months of living well below the poverty line in the jungle, Ranomafana has earned a special place in my heart.
Perhaps, these homely feelings are only being brought on now as the prospect of leaving looms ever closer and the dull pains of nostalgia set in. Maybe it’s my natural fear of radically changing my circumstances. I have grown comfortable in my corner of the forest. I know its cantankerous politics, its overpriced souvenirs, and strong coffee near the market. I love the way 3 year old Oni smiles at me when I rustle her hair at dinner. I’d rather be eating fried liver and leaves over rice with Rodrigue’s cozy little family than sit through three courses of American fair anywhere else on this island. As Ranomafana’s cloud infested winter months settle in, the weather will be miserable, but I’ll be on cloud 9.