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Mad Road Trip

 Story


LORDS, LADIES & LEMURS:
On the Move and in the Groove

Meeting Marc on Monday
It was time to start our road trip. On Monday morning, Monsieur Marc, our next chauffeur, picked us up in a 4WD Toyota Landcruiser. Cheerful and conversational, Marc spoke fairly good English, thanks to having had a Peace Corps Volunteer teacher when he was in high school. He had a cough though, which he said were the last vestiges of malaria mixed with the flu. There was a flu epidemic in the country, and the strain had nothing to do with the European strains against which H had vaccinated herself. She plied him with multiple remedies and by the next morning, his lingering cough was better.

Memsahib-in-Madagascar
W removed himself from the front seat to put some distance between himself and Marc, as well as to make H feel less car sick (see, he's not totally self-serving). From then on, H (Madame Memsahib to you) always rode in front next to our chauffeur–she told them where to go and how to get there–in great style, of course. W rode in the back with the hired help and hitchhikers. H would effortlessly wave from the front seat at the 'little brown children' (H insisted that W put quotes around that phrase…she would prefer it gone but, there again, you have been told of her imperious ways) we passed along the way in a style reminiscent of QEII's fine-tuned gesticulations. W would sheepishly explain to the hired help in the back that this Memsahib-in-Madagascar had never quite gotten over her Peace Corps days and was making up for lost time.

A Blast From the Past
Our first overnight was in Antsirabe, with its wide colonial streets, colorful rickshaws (called pousse-pousse), and mansions. On the way, we lunched in the small town of Ambatolampy at a French restaurant, which had not changed its dusty décor or its owner, since circa 1955. After spending the night in Antsirabe, we headed west to visit a large turquoise lake lined with spear fishermen and laundresses, and ate in the market town of Betafo, home of Mad's most fearless warriors of yore.

Some Like It Hot
We finished day two of the road trip in Miandrivazo, which enjoys the dubious honor of being the hottest place in an already hot country (and by golly, it was hot and dry there, plus our hotel had no running water). This town was near our boat launch and so we spent the night there before driving 2.5 hours over a dry, slithery, sandy and seemingly directionless road, past muscular, half-naked, spear carrying men (which H didn’t mind at all), to meet up with our boat.

The 'African' Queen
We arrived at the launch, a narrow dock amidst fields on the Tsiribihina River bank to find that we, Hepburn and Bogie, had a huge flat-bottomed barge all to ourselves with a crew of four to serve us. We didn’t realize how big and heavy our boat was relative to the other boats until we hit a sand bar, approximately 20 minutes after starting down the river.

Push Over
Actually there were two sandbars. Our boat had to be manually pushed by many strong men around both of them. Picture two American lords of leisure, slumped under a canopy, guiltily and helplessly watching the heaving (but cheerful) men push in the 90-degree plus heat. Now picture smaller and lighter boats with Europeans arrive and hit the same sand bar. As they stare blankly at us, and we at them, the diligent pushers abandon our boat and assist theirs. The smaller barges, almost all with larger parties than ours, took a mere half an hour to pass us.

Silver Lining
Five hours later, we too, were through. By this time, we were so far behind the other tourist barges that we didn’t have to camp with them that night. As a wicked wind picked up, we pulled up to an uninhabited sand bank. Because of the wind, the crew was reluctant to set up our tent outside. We ended up sleeping in a suffocatingly hot tent on board. [It was always tricky to balance W’s fear of malarial mosquitoes and H’s dread of being too hot. The furnace hot option usually won out, making for a sleepless night.]

Litter Box
The wind died down and the morning revealed a pristine sand bank. As there wasn’t a toilet on the boat, we looked at the sand bank as a cat would a giant, clean litter box. We buried our feces with feline expertise. Throughout the day, we got over being embarrassed about asking that the boat pull over whenever a pit stop was needed. The Malagasy crew seemed pretty relaxed about exposure of one’s derriere to the public.

Going With the Flow
We stopped at 'Les Cascades' (the waterfalls), for a walk and a swim. From far away the waterfall seemed like a little bit of Eden, and we relished the opportunity to shower naturally and cool off. The heat was such that we rationalized the brown spongy muck that lined the edge of the pool. During the day on the river, we saw, thanks to the sharp eyes of the crew, a young crocodile, sifakas (a type of lemur), fish eagles and, a prize sighting: a fossa (a puma-like carnivore, which is the largest in Mad), in addition to passing beautiful and varied scenery, stretches of forest, fishing villages, and herds of zebus.

Tale of Two Rivers
After two and a half days of motoring, we arrived at Belo-sur-Tsiribihina, a town nestled in the marshes and mangroves of a delta. We said a fond farewell to the crew, and were found by our next chauffeur, Monsieur Angeluc. He drove us three hours north in his 4WD truck over a dry and bumpy track through spiny forest, to the village of Bekopaka, where we were to stay for four days. We were happy to get out on account of our 'SUV sickness'. Our lodging was at 'Camp Croco,' overlooking the Manabolo River, which one had to cross in a dugout canoe to get to the Tsingy de Bemaraha National Park.

Hard Rock
The highlight of this park is the jagged, cathedral-like, limestone pinnacles, known as tsingy (means 'sharp'). It was formed over centuries by wind and water, and often towers several hundred yards high. Four nights and three days was just the right amount of time to spend there, given that W had to first recover a bit from a bout of 'tourista' (known locally as 'Hotely Belly'…a hotely = a small, simple local restaurant) and there was much to see at this national park. The tsingy came in two parts: The big tsingy and the little tsingy. Walkways and bridges allowed us to climb atop of the smaller tsingy, while ropes and climbing equipment were required for the larger pinnacles. The experience couldn’t be called rock climbing, but that’s what it felt like, in a fun, safe way.

Sweet Fellow
Our guide, Tiana, had such a sweet tooth that he had no teeth to speak of. This made it hard for him to speak. He was happy to find out that H was American. He wanted to practice his English, which H found fairly incomprehensible. H quickly put on her TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) hat and gave him English lessons while he sucked on his bonbons.

Hot Stuff
The heat dictated our tour schedule. We were up as early as possible, 5 am, to catch the coolest part of the day, and were across the river by 7. We walked, climbed, and sweated until 12 or 1, then staggered back to the camp to shower, nap, and read for the rest of the afternoon. An occasional light breeze served as an electric fan. During our walks, natural air conditioning was found in the caves of the tsingy, which made for a great snack stop. It was hot for everyone, even the locals, but the amazing contours of the tsingy, river, and wildlife around it made this our favorite park.

Palefaces
Since Madagascar is equatorial, and we are pale, it was necessary not only to slather ourselves with sun block, but also to stay out of the sun as much as possible. Malagasy ladies have a natural sun block, called masonjoany. They paint their faces white with this tree bark, and it not only protects their skin from the sun, it also makes it softer and suppler, and removes blemishes. Coppertone, watch out.

Going Coastal
After exploring the moonlike rock formations of the tsingy, we moved on to our next destination. Though it had already begun in the highland area, the rainy season seemed a long time coming in western Mad. The drive to Morondava was hot and dusty. Our chauffeur, Angeluc, we nicked-named “smooth operator,” not only because he had a chrome dome, but also because he used his truck to ferry people and goods in addition to us. We set out from Camp Croco with two foam mattresses, three women, and lots of luggage. On the road, we stopped for the local 'president' of the village and three hitchhikers. Somehow everyone fit in the back. We were mortified on one hand that only we got to sit inside the air conditioned cab, yet annoyed with Angeluc who was taking advantage of this privately rented vehicle (such conflicted sahibs are we). We were glad to bid him adieu in Morondava.

A nice view on the way to Morondava was the iconic Avenue du Baobab, which is one of the most photographed spots in Mad. Even though we weren’t there at the optimum picture taking time, sunset, it was still picturesque.

Stars and Bars
Morondava, a laid-back seaside town, with sandy streets and gently decaying clapboard houses, was a relaxing place to stay. Our beach front hotel, 'Chez Rosie', was run by a pony-tailed San Franciscan river rat who had spent 20 years in Africa arranging rafting trips for Chardonnay-swilling thrill-seekers. After walking along the ocean and watching the sail-powered fishing boats and outriggers return to port, we expended our remaining energy at an Internet café (priorities do change when one is traveling far from home). That night we ended up dining on fish with a new-age type American from Boulder, Colorado, who searches for oil overseas on behalf of oil companies. He had just returned from the Congo, where he spent a week in jail. His conversation made for great entertainment…but was he for real?

Mor(t)al Combat
We flew south in the morning to Toliara, a hot, dusty town overlooking mangrove swamps and bustling with colorful rickshaws, Indian traders, and half-inebriated French expats with local woman barely half their age. We noticed new posters warning visitors of the illegality and immorality of sex tourism, particularly with minors, at this airport.

At our newly built hotel, we were greeted by a swarm of mosquitoes doing aerial maneuvers in the bathroom. It took W, the determined hunter, over an hour of blood, sweat, and tears to kill them all.

Speaking In Tongues
Our next chauffeur, Monsieur Thomas, arrived that evening to introduce himself. He was unexpectedly accompanied by a young woman (not the kind aforementioned), Rosa, who was introduced as our “English speaking” guide for the next few days. We had difficulty taking Rosa seriously. For one thing, she spoke very little English. Secondly, she turned out to be a relative of Thomas's (exactly how they were related was never established for sure), as opposed to a “tour-guide-in-training.” But she was very sweet, and reminded us of W’s daughter E. It turned out that they are exactly the same age. Ah youth, it's universal in some respects.

H put on her TEFL hat again and passed some of the long hours on the road quizzing Rosa on vocabulary for her upcoming English test. When bored with studying, Rosa would entertain us by singing along to tapes of traditional Malagasy love songs. Large and affable Thomas was curious about our country and asked us many questions. For example, “what do you have in America for a leader–a king or queen or president or what?”

Wild West
On the way east to the remaining three national parks was a series of gemstone mining towns. Mad has one of the largest and most varied sources of precious gems in the world. We had read that this area was where “Asian gem dealers with briefcases handcuffed to their wrists, shiny suits, and guns in their pockets mingle with sweat-stained miners and nonchalant prostitutes in the ramshackle main streets.” The landscape was much like Nevada, and the road smooth and ribbon like. [The Thai, Sri Lankan, Chinese, and businessmen of other nationalities were doubtless responsible for fixing the local pot-hole ridden roads.] As we were hardly in the market for sapphire dealing, we would have blown through the three towns, but it was lunchtime.

Central Casting
W’s eagle eye spotted a promising sign for the 'The Palace Bar Restaurant' in the town of Sakaraha. Thomas reluctantly pulled in. We were greeted by a tall, thin, Frenchman with a beak nose. Very excited about our potential mid-day patronage, he commanded his staff to attend to our needs tout de suite. Then he enthusiastically lectured us on every available menu item. We settled on duck. He exclaimed that the duck was "formidable!" For a free-range duck that is. One must understand, he insisted (several times), that while free-range duck meat hardly had the same tender quality of force-fed French ducks, his Malagasy ducks were cooked to French perfection. This wildly gesticulating Frenchman from Central Casting stayed to watch us eat our two tasty duck-laden meals. By way of conversation, we asked him if his clientele were allowed to bring their handguns to his restaurant when it turned into a bar at night. "Ah, non," he assured us, "they leave them in their cars.”

Grand Canyon
We arrived at Isalo National Park in late afternoon in time to hire a guide for the following day and take a sunset walk. Isalo is a savagely beautiful park with lichen-lined, eroded sandstone and otherworldly landscapes punctuated by craggy pinnacles of terracotta rock, valleys, waterfalls and canyons. It reminded us a little of the Colorado River running thru the Grand Canyon. We saw a good bit of it during our 10 and 1/2 mile hike, led by Monsieur Gaston, a very experienced guide with easy-to-understand French.

United Nations
During a rest stop sometime after 5 miles had been hiked, we asked Gaston of his impression of tourists. His favorite nationality, he said, was German. He admired their love of the heat. Whereas most people, Malagasies especially, would seek shade in hot weather, the Germans would take off their shirts and bake on the ground until they turned pink. They also loved tomatoes. The German groups he had guided always came with crates of tomatoes, which they used to garnish every meal. He said Anglo-Saxons in general rose early, stayed up late and were interested in everything around them. The French were always worrying about their next meal. The Japanese worried about their health, wore protective facial masks and were forever taking photos of each other.

Cool Pools
Our grand hike in Isalo National park would have completely heat exhausted us had it not been for the swim stops. In late morning we arrived at the Piscine Naturelle, a paradisiacal palm-lined natural swimming pool fed by a waterfall so deliciously cool that one really did not want to leave. After lunch and much bathing, we hiked a few more hours through deep gorges full of thick vegetation to a high waterfall called Cascade des Nymphes. This one was even cooler than the first. By this time our clothes were sweaty and grimy. While it was great to take them off for a cooling swim, it was not so nice to put them back on.

Free Fall
After two nights in Isalo, we continued east to Andringtra National Park, which has spectacular views of huge granite peaks towering above golden valleys, somewhat reminiscent of Yosemite Valley. We stayed just outside the park, with a nearby 1/2 mile high sheer rock face considered by rock climbers to be one of the most challenging in the world. Our eco-lodge was called “Camp Catta.” It catered to groups of Europeans into extreme sports.

Our guide, another Monsieur Eric, told story after story of hang gliders, Evil Knievel imitators and parachutists. During the total of 7 hours of hiking, we increased our extreme sports French vocabulary (rock climbing is l’escalade en français, by the way). We had missed the September extreme sports season so we had to imagine the brightly colored kite-like sails and climbers dropping down from the cliffs. Sadly, sometimes these adrenaline junkies got a little too high, and checked in but never checked out.

Our tamer adventure was a two-hour sunset walk past ancient rock tombs and cave shelters to see the ringtailed lemurs. The ringtails look a bit like raccoons, and have mannerisms like cats, which is why they are called lemuris catta. These catta were rock climbers too, unlike other tree-dwelling lemurs.

Climbing Chameleons
Our next adventure was to climb to the top of Chameleon Mountain, the star attraction. We had to do this early in the morning, not only to avoid the blazing midday heat, but also to be able to have time to drive to the next national park. We started at 6ish in the morning, laden with snacks, water and lunch. The early morning sun on the long grass arrested W the photographer. H spent most of her energy yakking with Eric. We reached the Chameleon summit mid-morning and began the long descent down, stopping only to apply blister-preventing moleskin.

Death by Dialogue
Eric had convinced us that the path swinging out and away from the hotel was the best way to return, even though it looked much longer. H, the chief communicator, gave him the benefit of the doubt, and we followed like sheep down down down and through a village full of locals trying to sell beads and other goodies that we had no energy to deal with. The end of the 5 hours felt excruciating. We were hot, tired, cranky and out of conversation. Eric, however, did not stop talking even though he had started to repeat himself. Evidently, he thought that his tip was calculated on conversational ability.

Ambling thru Ambalavo
We stopped at a touristy place in the town of Ambalavo, known for its floral papyrus-like paper producing workshops, gingerbread houses with steep tiled roofs and carved wooden balconies, and traditional papermaking. We did all the things that tourists were supposed to do: ate lunch, toured the workshops, and shopped at the factory outlet for presents. By now, we had returned to the highland area where the cooler air made a welcome change.

In Touch
On the way to our next national park was the large town of Fianarantsoa (or Fianar for short). We stopped there to enjoy the feel of highland civilization and to check our e-mail in one of the many internet cafes. Though we didn’t spend the night here, it seemed like it would be a nice town to stay in, maybe even more pleasant than Tana. The brief impression we got was of old, winding cobbled streets, numerous church steeples, and red brick buildings with character derived from its age of 100 plus years.

Golden Opportunity
Ranomafana National Park was supposed to be the peak of our wildlife-viewing odyssey. Picture cloud forest spread out over rolling hills and punctuated by small streams bubbling through dense vegetation to a rushing river called the Namorona.

We had read about the park’s founding in Peter Tyson’s superb book, The Eighth Continent, and about the discovery here of yet another species of lemur, the golden bamboo lemur, in 1991. This park was founded by an American biologist, not only to protect one of the last bits of unburned rainforest, but also to turn around the cycle of extreme poverty of the communities near the park.

Biologists from all over the world come to study the wildlife here. We had read narratives of their plight–sitting still in the forest, hour after hour, rain or fog, recording the movements of frogs or lemurs or civets or, the biggest challenge, fossa. With all that recent history, and the intense pressure on this last piece of forest (which, we noted, is still being burned around the edges) to produce a solution to the poverty that surrounds it, Ranomafana had a lot to live up to.

Eco-tourism was supposed to help replace some of the people’s dependency on slash and burn farming. We were happy to learn that 50% of the park fees, as in all other national parks, went to community development efforts.

Show Time
We were still dehydrated from our Andringitra hike, and so weren’t fully up to the challenge of another major exertion. We did manage to choose a guide, Rudy–who spoke English well, and with a rather cute accent (or so thought H, whom W suspects may have had a petit crush), and allowed him to talk us into a 3 hour “walk.”

On this walk, we saw red-bellied lemurs, grey bamboo lemurs, a bird’s nest with 3 exquisite small speckled eggs and fluorescent frogs. The trails, somewhat crowded, are quite civilized and aren’t very rugged, although steep. Later on, we went on a night walk and saw a fannaloka (type of civet) and tree-leaping mouse lemurs. The guides are no longer allowed to put food out to attract these animals for the tourists. But no one had given that 411 to the animals, who came out of the bushes in response to pebbles tossed their way. The tiny mouse lemurs were amazingly quick, leaping from branch to branch like lemurs while resembling mice. It was impossible to take a picture of them.

Between the two hikes, we lazed about in a natural hot spring, which took the form of a dilapidated pool smelling of sulphur, and W had a Malagasy-style massage, which helped his aches and pains. We decided to forgo the 8-hour hiking option and leave a day earlier for Tana. Thomas and Rosa were fine with that.

Leaping Lizards
After a few days rest and recuperation from our various ailments back in Tana at WF & R’s abode, we resumed our road trip, once again driven by Monsieur Thomas, directly east to Manjakandrariana to visit a reptile farm. This was the only sure way to see and photograph some of the island's amazing chameleons, lizards, and frogs, of all colors and sizes.

Also, there was a special species of lemur that we had not yet seen. Fortunately, we had time and energy for one more national park, Andasibe, which was a mere 3 hours from Tana, and was for that reason the most visited national park in Mad. Andasibe consists of primary growth forest studded with small lakes. It is also the home to the indri, Madagascar's largest lemur.

Coming Up For Air
Hotel accommodations were not plentiful, so we had to take what we could get. We ended up in an A-frame cabin attached to the Hotel du Gare, a 1930s renovated train station that was full of retro character. The cabin had been raided with RAID spray before our arrival to massacre who knows what vermin. Our attempts to air out the place were not very successful. The combination of motion sickness from the winding drive to get there, plus stench-of-RAID made for a queasy stomach, particularly for H. W, in the meantime, had a recurrence of his gastro-intestinal bug and was not a happy camper, either. The finale came in the middle of the night, when a mysterious mammal munched on some of our food.

Siren Song
The cry of the indri, however, made the suffering worth it. We had learned from the Andasibe park museum that the indri, unlike tourists, are late morning risers, and don’t start their calls until around 8:30. So we started walking around 7:30. Our sweet (talking) guide, who quickly became another one of H's English students, was, in between practicing his English phrases, pumping the other guides for information on indri sightings. It came down to this, sightings of indri made for happy tourists. We were no exception.

We were lucky. At approximately 8:15, the indri cries began. It was easy to follow their sounds. The eerie wailing cry sounded like something between a siren and the song of humpback whales. [Click on indri now.] It’s more about the sound than sight. When we arrived at the source, the indri were quiet.

Say Cheese in Japanese
Upon arrival at the lemur site, we were joined by a group of Japanese tourists wielding cameras with telephoto lenses the size of Schwarzenegger’s arm. We all whispered and moved quietly, as one would in a cathedral, in the presence of these creatures, who resembled 4-year-old children in panda suits. We watched their fearless, ungainly leaps from tree to tree. The group included a 6-month-old indri that was learning to leap by himself. We studied them above our heads until our necks couldn’t take it anymore. It was truly an amazing experience to behold.

Listen to the cry of the Indri by clicking here:

Bon Voyage
From Andasibe, we made our way back to Tana for our last night in Mad. Thomas picked us up at 4 am the next morning for our 6:30 flight to Mauritius (“Maurice” in French). We learned three weeks later that there was an attempted coup d'etat in Mad a few days after we left.

We spent a quiet week in Mauritius relaxing and recuperating before returning to California via London just in time for Thanksgiving.

Our stay in Madagascar and Mauritius gave us a chance to think, reflect, read, write, and ponder our future. We concluded that we wanted to work more internationally for socially progressive causes and so we shall!

Watch the chameleon here:
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