Canoe Trip to Morandava

Mark and I decided we needed a vacation. I had yet to use any of my 49 vacation days from Peace Corps and Mark had just finished a major project. We heard about a trip in the West that visited some of the major sites for a reasonable price. A canoe was apparently involved. I got a phone number, made some calls, and here is what transpired.
The trip began less than gloriously. We spent 14 hours in three different taxi vans only to arrive in Miandravazo, a town notable only as the hottest place in Madagascar. After passing the first of many nights drenched in my own epidermal excrement, our tour group coalesced next to the Tsiribina River.
Mark and I, as it turns out, were not alone on our trip, joining us would be an unlikely motley of interesting people of European origin. Our group included four Italian-speaking middle aged Swiss tri-athletes, two friends from Spain, and a Polish man married to a Slovak living in Belfast. Four Malagasy men joined to row the boats. Serious linguistic Olympics ensued. The Pole and the Slovak spoke decent English, but talked to each other in an unorthodox Slavic mélange that was neither Polish nor Slovak. The Swiss were wonderfully chatty and their brazen Italian, but only one of the Swiss and the Spanish woman spoke English. Even my Malagasy was slightly handicapped as I speak Betsileo dialect and our rowers were Sakalava. In the end, although none of us hailed from the former colonial power, French became our main mode of communication.
The Tsiribina (means “Don’t Dive” in Malagasy) is much less a river in the conventional sense than an organized flow of dissolved red clay particulates. The water smelled mildly of cow manure. Bubbles on the surface would combine with one another to form foamy hunks of scum that floated by like a rancid sponge. Five or six naked women bathed next to our boats. The question on everyone’s mind was whether they would be cleaner before or after going into the water. Presently I dipped a foot in. The temperature was an un-refreshing 85 degrees, providing no relief from the unforgiving sun. Accordingly I would never go more than knee deep into this stale water for the next three days.
As we all clamored into our boats, we were each issued a cheap plastic parasol. Mine was pink with purple flowers and baby blue designs that suggested Asian calligraphy. Though I shunned this hideous present at first, I came to my senses fast after we pushed away from shore into the open river. My cheap parasol was the only thing between me and the African sun for the next 6-8 hours. Even the constant application of prodigious amounts of SPF 45 could prevent my pasty knees from turning the color of raw meat.
Once I got past the heat and the state of the river, the trip turned into a spectacular adventure. Far from any passable road, we were in the real wilderness of Western Madagascar. The scenery looked like what I imagined Africa would be like. Tall reeds hiding endless plains of grass and scattered trees dominated our world for all of day one. On the second day we paddled though a string of tall hills blanketed with pristine dry deciduous forest. White Sifaka lemurs leaped between trees and herons prowled the water for a meal. Large bats huddled under the high red cliffs as the loud songs of black Vaza Parrots reverberated off the rocks. Consistently, at about 4 pm the heat of the day would break and self destruct into incredible sunsets.
With daylight failing our entourage would disembark on an undisturbed sandbar, and busy ourselves setting up tents on the soft ground. With nothing but loose sand to stake the tents, wind was an issue. Food prep was handled by the Malagasy rowers, except for day two when they allowed Mark and I were each allowed to kill and denude the hens that had been heretofore keeping us company in the back of the Spanish canoe. One of our lunches took place at a waterfall oasis a few meters off the river in the forest, this stop was also notable because it provided a chance to wash off the layers of muck, sweat, sand, and oily sunscreen that had been festering on our skin for two days.
Our trip happened to coincide with the beginning of mango season in Western Madagascar. A few notes on these fruits before we move any further. This entire land is rife with these juicy fruits. Monumental and fecund trees are commonplace, but some abhorrent percentage of useful fruit is wasted because there are not enough people to eat them, equipment to harvest them, or infrastructure to transport them. Selling these fruits in Madagascar is like selling sand on the beach. Instead children toss them in the river to watch them splash. On the two occasions for which we sought the shade of a mango tree for a tent site, only to be startled awake by these large fruits crashing onto our thin nylon roof at unpleasant hours of the morning. Second, there is no polite way to eat a fresh mango. The flesh, unlike a peach for example, is bonded to the pit so after the fruit is peeled the edible portion has to cut or eaten away from the center creating a sticky mango mess. Also they are wildly stringy so one is liable to get half the fruit gracefully wedged between one’s incisors. Stabbing away at the offending orange stringys with a toothpick
After three days on the river, we were driven some distance north to Tsingy Bemahera National Park. If you have access to a November 2009 issue of National Geographic, locate it and observe closely the cover art. This is where I went. This place is completely beyond words to accurately describe, but I shall do my best. A “Tsingy” formation is a maze of thousands of tiny deep valleys cut sharply into hard limestone. The effect is other worldly. The tops of the rocks are a dark grey color, razor sharp, and tough as nails. Climbing up the valleys requires harnesses and cables as a safety precaution. One misstep climbing around here and you would be facing multiple broken limbs if you were lucky. Squeezing through tiny crevices no more than a foot wide to the valley bottoms, the rocks become a marble white sporting crystallized stylites and cool dark caves that connect the valleys in an endless web of confusing splendor. Somehow, life manages to thrive here and green trees canopies poke out of the tops of the valley providing a pleasant leafy contrast to the sea of black spires. Entire ecosystems of weird bats, spiders, snails, and caterpillars thrive on sandy valley floors. Tsingy truly deserves its status as a UNESCO world heritage site: there is no place like it anywhere else in the world.
After a full day of Tsingy exploration, we crammed into the 4x4s for a 180k drive to Morandava. A thorny task without considering the road had more craters than Ypres in 1918 and that our driver was trying earnestly to end our lives. Wearing tinted aviators and an outdated professional basketball jersey he very clearly considered himself and his elderly Toyota Landcruiser too cool for school and he wasn’t going to let his paying clients interrupt his flow. Horrified we watched on as he nearly turned a joyful family of lemurs into fuzzy white road kill and when one of the Italians shrieked at him to slow down as we approached a mother cow nursing her infant calf on the side of the road, he merely laid on the horn startling the poor beasts into the brush as he blazed past. Emerging finally on the sandy riverbed approaching the ferry, he revved the engine, accelerating to the edge of the water before skidding to a stop at the waters edge, slamming his passengers against whatever was immediately in front of them. Emerging dazed and sore, he had the gal to smile at me and say “Ca va?” Unfriendly glances and a mild tongue lashing we directed his way.
As the sun sank low we arrived at the famous Avenue de Baobabs. This cluster of trees near on the dusty highway north is, perhaps, the single most picturesque location in the whole of Madagascar. I dare say that a mature Baobab is the most beautiful, stately, and sublime tree anywhere in the world. Solid monoliths of grey and maroon soaring over the dusty flat earth cresting with a collection of craggy branches dusted with green spring leaves. The effect was stunning. The trees also happened to be in fruit and one of the Spaniards was gracious enough to buy us one of the brown fuzzy fruits. Ranging in size from a softball to as large as my head, Baobab fruit is dry, foamy, tasteless, but mildly sweet. It was the perfect little snack as we struggled to squeeze that last bits of life from Mark’s camera to capture the wonderful spectacle.
As night fell, we finally arrived in Morandava, a sweltering costal city with a heavy, dazed, relaxed, and overwhelmingly Rastafarian atmosphere. Mark and I tented in the front yard of a new volunteer and had a day to wander the sand-paved streets of the hot city. We ducked the noon heat in a ice cream shop in the center of town and dined on fresh seafood in a breezy beachside bistro before our car back to the capital, and an exciting political crisis and attempted coup d’etat awaited.

Thanks

Hey I just wanted to give a quick thanks to Grandmas A and W, Randy and Sharon, and Aunt M who I got packages from today! Your the food, books, pictures, and letters were wonderful. Thanks so much! miss you guys!

Hotelys

Contrasting my male coworkers who have wives attending to their three squares, I fend for myself. Cooking from scratch every day can be a monumental task. Rather than sacrifice all of my potential fecundity to become my own domestic slave, I have expounded several methods of satisfying my notoriously ravenous appetite.
I mentioned before that I pay my neighbors to eat with their family for dinner each evening. This experience continues to yield mixed results, especially as boiled intestines have established themselves as a family favorite. Irregardless, my late afternoon laziness continues to prevail over satisfying my increasingly numb pallet. So dinner is taken care of at least for the near future.
Breakfast has also been sub-contracted out to the local villagers. There is a lady down the road who pounds cassava root into balls and fries it into crunchy tasteless pellets. Although they acquire the consistency of rubber if allowed to cool, catch them fresh and douse with a generous amount of imported catsup and you can be full for just under 10 cents.
That leaves lunch, far and away the most challenging meal of the day. Often when out on orchard visits with Mano or working in the nursery with Rodrigue we do not finish before 11:30 of 12:00. The prep time for any meal that I would consider discussing publicly is at least an hour and a half, an unacceptable state of affairs when I have been working all morning. Sometimes I will take a few hours and prepare a mountain of food that I leave un-refrigerated in a pot for upwards of three days while I chip away at it. More likely, however, is that I will cave and bike into town to eat at a traditional Malagasy “hotely”. I can speak about these peculiar Malagasy dining institutions (restaurants is too euphemistic a word) in general terms because all Malagasy hotelys are exactly the same. Unlike American businesses which thrive on differentiating their products to gain a competitive edge and increase market share, these places seem to thrive on their ability to be exactly the same and defy basic business sense.
From the roadside, a Hotely does not look very endearing. If such structures existed stateside they would be used to store the lawnmowers or to manufacture methamphetamines. The walls are plastered with posters alternating between scantily clad late-90’s American pop-stars and digitally enhanced pictures of fruit. The menu is always uniform. Chicken, pork, or beef, stewed in beans, cassava leaves, or its own juices. Everything comes with the obligatory mountain of white rice. Chicken is always hit or miss. Hit being leg or breast and miss involving butt, neck, or other things considered inedible in America. ‘Pork’ is actually a misnomer; the menu should read ‘pork fat attached to skin and bits of meat.’ I stick with the beef generally. All the food is cooked and served in enough oil to power one of those modified car engines for a week. It also precludes the need for chap stick or laxatives.
The service at a hotely is uniformly horrid. The proprietress behind the counter is always taciturn and rotund (rare for Malagasy) and the underage girls who wait the tables appear to be hired based on their ability to be rude, unapproachable, and completely mute. I have on more than one occasion arrived at a hotely to find the waitress sprawled out asleep on a table. When not unconscious on the furniture, the staff is hypnotically glued to the 19 inch television behind the counter. Politely ask for salt and be prepared to receive dazed stares followed by lackadaisical shuffling and about the room before a container of damp congealed salt is apathetically placed in front of you. Heartfelt expressions of gratitude for this onus service are never met with so much as a ‘your welcome’ a phrase which has apparently been surgically removed from their vocabulary as a prerequisite to employment.
To use the facilities at a hotely is to bear witness to a voluminous quantity of flagrant health code violations. The pit toilet is never far from the cooking area and when passing through the kitchen, prepare to avert your gaze less you lay eyes on the unsanitary squalor from whence the meals emanate. Not only is the bright placard reminding employees to wash their hand before returning to work conspicuously absent, but also all the materials and facilities required therein. Also disconcerting is the pride of ratty housecats that often swarm unattended tables to plunder leftover bones and lick the grease off the plates so never leave a table unguarded.
Some hotelys do try and break from the nauseating homogeny that envelops these eateries by offering oily pasta, fried rice, and French fries to appeal to the occasional white person. Caution is however advised as these dishes are not pre-made in the kitchen like the others so you are liable to sit and wait for up to 35 minutes for your meal whilst you watch your friends satisfy their hunger on traditional Malagasy fare. Also catsup in this country is treated like a precious metal and is doled out only when requested and in the most minute of quantities. Eating with some friends, we ordered five servings of fries and “lots of catsup” but we were the recipients of only two platters graced with modest red dollops the size of York Peppermint Patties to divide between the five of us. The Great Catsup Shortage is however a myth because bottles of the stuff sell for less than a dollar.
With the unsanitary atmosphere, pathetic food, foul service, and downright criminal catsup stinginess, I sometimes wonder why I still frequent these establishments, but when I consider that I can get a full meal for less than a dollar and not have to dishes, my righteous indignation cracks, I get my bike, and I head into town for another meal at the hotelys.

Sundays

With the recent re-population of the Route National 25 corridor with new volunteers, I am suddenly facing a new and strange phenomenon: American neighbors. Rebekah and Ally are now 21 and 47 kilometers away respectively opening up the possibility of a day trip to visit one another. Accordingly, we planned a weekly Sunday brunch.
An excellent opportunity to spend one day a week with university educated Americans and to avoid spending an entire day alone in my house with my recalcitrant cat, our little dinners have become the highlight of my week. We make the most of our time by having an impromptu American cultural hour before we start chopping the vegetables. Complete with poetry readings, scripture, favorite music, and book readings it is easy to forget that we don’t speak the mother tongue for the other six days of the week.
Food prep is coordinated by the culinary despot Rebekah which is ok by the rest of us because it always turns out scrumptious.
Emerging from our collective food coma in the early afternoon, we embark on a walk around whoever’s site we happen to be visiting that week. Last week, when promenading about the district capital of Ifanadiana, we wandered up the palm-lined avenue to the Maison du Chef de District de Vatovavy (French speak for Governor’s Mansion). As the center of administration for one of Madagascar’s 22 regions, the hilltop château gracing the top of the town certainly left something to be desired. The splendid wrap around verandah was collapsing in places, the moss infested gutters hung distended from the roof like thick vines, and weeds had re-conquered the careful efforts of the evicted French colonial gardeners. Presently a portly Malagasy man bedecked in athletic shorts and an old pocketed t-shirt advertising a local laundry detergent met us in the yard. In the course of our ensuing polite banter, this unassuming character revealed he was, in fact, the Governor himself. Still reeling from this somewhat surprising revelation, we were further taken aback when he invited the three of us inside to play a few rounds of Dominoes.
Entering the dilapidated mansion, we were led into a room decorated like the operation center of an Eastern European drug kingpin. Painted a deep shade of blue, the outsized room contained no windows or light fixtures. The only furnishings were a semi-circle of gargantuan leather chairs facing a rugged coffee table. In the far corner was a pile meter high stack of official looking papers positioned ominously next to a blackened fireplace. The worn leather recliners swallowed us with ease, although I quickly realized that playing a game with my posterior only inches above the floor and my knees pointing straight up in the air would be challenging indeed. An underling arrived with the dominoes and the Governor asked seriously if we would be bothered if he smoked, as if we were really going to tell him to abstain. Though the governor insisted on sitting out while the three volunteers played, he dictated strategy to Rebekah and eventually assumed praetorian control of her little white rectangles. Though I got off to a disappointing start, I managed to win both matches we played, shutting out the governor in round two. We lingered and chatted while he choked down his 9th cigarette before we excused ourselves. Though we had a great time, I realize we should probably desist from spending our weekends with the upper echelon of regional government. Next Sunday will undoubtedly be less eventful.
In a brief prologue I would like to submit the following incident as evidence of the monumental incompetence of what masquerades as postal service in this country. Last Wednesday, the unfortunate little postal worker who has borne the brunt of my ire with ‘Postera Malagasy’ and their failure to perform even the most rudimentary tasks, excitedly indicated through intense gesticulation that for the first time in four and a half months I had mail. Overcome with anticipation for the mountain of letters and well wishes from friends and family back in the developed world, I gripped the counter as he disappeared in the back room for a few minutes, no doubt he was trying to consolidate all my envelopes into a single box or at least wrap them up in a thick bundle of happiness secured with a strong rubber band. Beaming with pride, he emerged from the back room bearing a single envelope addressed to “Katie Browne PCV, Madagascar National Parks AMBAJA Madagascar.” It was all I could do not to throw the mishandled mail back into his beaming face and lend him a piece of my mind. Instead I politely informed him that my name is not Katie and that the person he is looking for lives some 800k away on the Northern coast of the island. Knowing full well that if I resubmitted this letter for delivery it may never see the light of day again, I resolved to hold onto it until I see Katie again in January. To illustrate my point a bit further, when the letter in question arrived in Antananarivo via airmail, the nincompoops at Malagasy Post only managed to get the letter 435k FURTHER AWAY from its desired recipient. Meanwhile I still have no mail.

Other Side of the Coin

Picture is of the Nursery Expansion

Back in September, sixteen Malagasy farmers came into Ranomafana and slept three nights on the hard concrete floor of the local elementary school for the privilege of receiving fruit trees from the tree nursery. Hailing from scattered villages in the district of Ranomafana, these farmers have spent the past month collecting their saplings from the nursery and arranging them in orchards on previously barren hillsides. As the trees start to go in the ground, it is my job to go out to visit the farmers to ensure the trees are spaced properly, remain healthy, and are well cared for.
My partner in crime is Mani, a taller Malagasy man with one front tooth and an impeccable tendency to show up late for our meetings. Our job description does not sound terribly arduous: Meet the farmer, investigate the orchard, and get a stamp from the Chef d’Fokantany (town mayor). The challenge lies in the getting there. All of our transportation is done on foot on ‘roads’ that even the most liberal of American cartographers would designate as a “strenuous hiking trails.” My first excursion required three hours of trekking to a non-descript village only to find out that the farmer there had not yet planted his orchard. This morning we had to ford the Namarona River’s waist deep water twice. Mani imprudently wore pants; removing them he arrived in the village of Morafeno in his underwear. Although appointments with the farmers were scheduled in advance, we often arrive weary and sweaty to find that the person we are looking for is panning for gold, planting rice, or practicing some slash-and-burn.
Many of the orchards have already been expertly planted by their enthusiastic proprietors who are keen to show off their handiwork. Sometimes we are greeted by the entire extended family, welcoming us into their house offering gifts of coffee and bananas. Not all the orchards, unfortunately, have met with complete success. One farmer’s wife led us nearly a kilometer straight up a mountain only to discover that their infant orchard was already a victim of rapine. Two of the newly planted citrus saplings had been uprooted and stolen. We found a jabotikaba tree was found in the bushes nearby bushes, likely discarded due to the fruit-tree’s uncanny likeness to a native tree species notable only for its uselessness.
My new peripatetic profession has helped me to uncover a new favorite activity, namely running barefoot through the rainforest. With the leech population reduced by the dry weather and assured by the knowledge that there are no poisonous snakes or other potentially incapacitating wildlife living in the forest, I feel free to wander freely with my denuded feet. Feeling the rich earth beneath my feet and cool thick air rushing through my lungs as I lunge between vines and mossy rocks gives me a sensation of absolute bliss. The tourists with their heavy hiking boots and thick socks never get to feel the water rushing between their toes as they walk through a stream or know what a patch of bamboo grass feels like underfoot. When the rains return in December, I’ll undoubtedly need to break out my shoes again, but until then I intend to do all my forest hiking without footwear.
Though my previous blog post concluded rather ominously, I take comfort in the fact that in these sixteen little patches of earth near Ranomafana National Park, there won’t be any more burning. As I mentioned before, the objective of this project is to give farmers the tools and opportunities to stop the devastating agricultural methods of their ancestors. Many of the orchards are plated within view of vulnerable unprotected forest. One farmer in particular lives in a meticulously deforested patch of land surrounded entirely by pristine jungle. There is still no one who can stop the burning that continues to ravage this fragile island. But maybe next year there will be one less fire as the fruit trees grow and propagate, and 10 years from now far fewer as our little orchards expand and turn the burned moonscape into a prosperous green hillside.

Reality Check

Picture is a fire burning above Ranomafana village

Though September and October are the high water marks for tourism in Ranomafana, it is also the season when all the Malagasy farmers take to the hills with their curved axes and burn the forest down. A few weeks of dry weather dries the underbrush and turns the entire male population of this formerly green island into frantic pyromaniacs. For the past six weeks, the valley of Ranomafana has languished in the smoggy haze resulting from all the burning, obscuring the forested mountaintops that remain in the East. While fetching water last week I was caught in a small flurry of ash descending from the sky. Ostensibly the purpose of all this environmental rape is to prepare the land for planting cassava, a crop with all the succulent flavor and nutritional value of a newspaper. Also, most of the land being subjected to slash and burn ‘agriculture’ isn’t forest; it’s already de-forested land that has been struggling to recover. However, there are still some parcels of the remaining forest included in the inferno every year as human progress marches forward.
Not to mention the extraordinary amount of erosion these fires are going to cause when the rains roll through in the coming months, or the astronomical cost of repairing infrastructure damaged by this erosion, the main loss to the people of Madagascar, and the world, is the permanent loss of biodiversity. Additionally, each fire set has the potential to grow out of control and burn through the Park, the economic lifeblood of Ranomafana. Just a few weeks ago, a fire set near Isalo National Park grew too large, got out of control, and proceeded to destroy most of the sites I hiked through and raved about last month. The leafy canyons, grassy landscapes, and even the picnic site with the friendly lemur families were all tragically reduced to ash. The Malagasy are trying to shoot themselves in the foot, but catching the bullet in the face on the ricochet.
For the past week I have sat on my back stoop watching the fires rage and light up the evening sky just across the river from my house and wondering how a supposed ‘environment volunteer’ can take all this so supinely. I want to form a bucket brigade and have the people responsible for the appalling destruction arrested. But blaming the local Malagasy farmers for this is like blaming the boiler-room workers on the Titanic for driving the ship into the iceberg. Compounding the poverty that inspires this madness are a truly Byzantine system of land distribution and ownership, a wild-west style of law enforcement, and a corrupt political system that ensures that the people on the bottom receive no benefit from the wealth of tourist dollars that Ranomafana is blessed with. As much as I want to end this post with an up-beat assessment of conservation or a clever quip about hope for the future, I feel that would be misleading. The forest is burning and there is nothing I, or anyone, can do to stop it.

Checklist of Chores to do Before Company Arrives

1. Remove visible dirt from the surface of the bed
2. Attack baseball-sized spider festering in the corner of the room. Preferably killing it, but wounding it and forcing the unfortunate creature to beat a retreat into the ceiling is adequate also.
3. Remove rodent, feline, and other feces from the floor.
4. Locate/unpack deodorant stick. Use liberally. Display someplace easily perceptible.
5. Inform neighbors and villages that the visitor in question is not your significant other. This will alleviate rampant gossip on the subject, but will prevent neither children from giggling and pointing, nor neighborhood women from discussing you and your guest’s relationship audibly as you pass by.
6. Remove wet/dank laundry from the furniture where it has been failing to dry since you washed it two days ago. Prioritize undergarments.
7. Open all windows/doors to air out the faint smell of urine.
8. Buy toilet paper or dismember one of the old notebooks from pre-service training.
9. Clean* dishes
10. Hide precious objects from America you are not prepared to share. (Oreo cookies, JIF peanut butter, some candies)


*any of the following are acceptable definitions of ‘Clean’
-Cleaner than it was before
-Clean enough
-I would consider eating of that
-It looks clean
-“Off-white”

Also while I am writing this at the Internet Café there is an overweight American man yelling into his blackberry at some unfortunate customer service representative. He can’t understand why his baggage wasn’t delivered to his hotel some 300k away from the capital by yesterday. He making me laugh.
In other news my cat caught the huge rat that has been menacing me for months this morning. She ate the head and the tail off it (which I can not imagine are the best cuts of rat) and then regurgitated most of it on my mat. I was very happy.

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.