The King Has Left the Building

Remember that time when I was bragging about how awesome we were since we hadn't been completely screwed over here.  Well the time has come for me to admit the errors of my ways.  Florent, the tom turkey of Madagascar guides, is now officially on everyone's who counts (mine and Kelly's) shit list.  Car luck was just never on his side.  The latest saga entailed a smoking engine filling the car with a dense cloud, Florent completely trying play off this as normal all the while sticking his head out the window to see/breathe.  Since Florent was apparently going to ignore this until the car incinerated, Kelly had to be the responsible party and break the ice by asking if there was "something wrong with the engine".  In which his reply was "No, of course not, but if the smoke bothers you, you can roll down your window".  Oh really?  As it turns out, if you keep driving on a smoking engine it doesn't just go away.  Kelly and Krista now stuck on the side of the road for the 52nd time this trip.  We were so fed up that we didn't even attempt to help push the car this time (I did, however, take pictures).  Stranded on the side of a Madagascar highway, Kelly and I entertained ourselves by singing, Indian wrestling and various versions of who-can-do-this-random-activity-the-fastest.  This was all to the immense entertainment of the local Malagasy who just posted up on the side of the road for the afternoon to watch us pasty aliens do stupid human tricks.  If the Malagasy had television, we would have the number one rated reality show.  

Let me put an end to your anticipation; the car was not revived.  So a taxi bus was waved down to whisk Kelly and I off to the next destination where we would meet our mentally challenged guide within the next couple of days.  The taxi busses here are essentially a typical 15 passenger van which they are able to squeeze in 35 passengers, 20 chickens, 2 tons of lumber and a partridge in a pear tree.  I wish this were and exaggeration, but I've seen more than one taxi bus where people are literally sitting with their butts sticking out the windows because there is no other place to fit.  Kelly had a small child sleeping in her lap for the eight hour journey while another boy coughed on her neck for the entire duration.  The ride should usually only take about half the time, but there are an infinite number of road stops marshaled by various agents (police, military and other uniformed officers that may or may not be official).  With out fail, every stop included the driver bribing the various officials by slipping them a few notes.  I don't know what the bribes are for since I doubt there are laws here dictating the legal capacity or chicken limits of a taxi bus, but this has been standard on every taxi bus we've taken since.

We do indeed make it to our destination and even more surprising, fatso Florent meets us there two days later as promised.  Upon meeting him he admits that his car's engine is ruined.  I'm no mechanic, but we told you so.  Florent, being the upstanding guide he is, promises he will have another car and a new english speaking driver for us in a couple days.  We weren't holding our breath, but figured we stick around to see how this one ended.  Low and behold our new driver, Elvis (I doubt this is a traditional Malagasy name, but with the lack of television here it seems even more doubtful that his mother might have been that tuned into pop culture at his birth), shows up a couple days later with a working vehicle.  Soon after hitting the road we learn that what Florent meant by "english speaking driver" was that Elvis spoke even less english than we spoke Malagasy.  No big deal since we've essentially learned how to communicate in this country in fluent charades (side note; Kelly and I are throwing down the charades gauntlet now for our return to the states, we will take on any and all challengers, place your bets now). Shortly into the remainder of our guided tour, Elvis attempts to explain to us that rolly-poley Florent has not given him enough money for gas or the national parks scheduled on the rest of our itinerary.  A quick call to our estranged guide Florent does reveal that he in fact did not give Elvis enough money, but he promises to pay us back before we fly out of the country.  True, I was totally born yesterday. Ok, so we're getting ripped off, but we decide that won't discourage us from seeing everything that we came here to see, at least we have a driver with a working vehicle now who also has connections with park guides.  Dun dun dun.

Elvis introduces us to our would-be park guide that evening who turned out to be so overly priced it makes my wallet hurt to think about it now.  We politely explain to him that we are just two ballers on a budget and thank you, but we'll find a guide at the park in the morning.  Morning rolls around and no Elvis.  Maybe something was lost in translation and he didn't understand we still wanted to go to the park, but when Elvis fails to show up that afternoon or the next day we knew something was amiss.  Another call to Florent (oh yeah, still not done with that douche yet) and he suggests that maybe Elvis is mad at us for not accepting his guide.  Now, now children.  We insist Florent call Elvis to rectify the situation and so we can continue on the rest of our trip.  Whether accurate or not, Florent insists after multiple attempts he simply cannot get ahold of Elvis.  The King has left the building.

So, we got screwed.  At least our aforementioned taxi bus expedition prepared us to travel without the help of a guide.  After a few weeks of being here, things aren't so intimidating and we both at least feel confident enough to take on Madagascar solo.  We scheduled our taxi bus for the next day and a car even came to pick us up from our hotel to take us to the bus, which wasn't explained to us when we bought the ticket but turns out is 25km out of town.  Thank god there was a French couple at our hotel taking the same bus who were able to translate all of this for us.  True to Madagascar form, they squeeze the four of us tourists in the back seat of a minuscule car.  Somehow Kelly has to sit on my lap instead of the French gentleman taking his lady in his lap.  No matter since I was feeling sorry for the two grown Malagasy men who had to share the front passenger seat AND two other grown men that were sharing the DRIVER seat.  Clown car experts learned everything they know from the Malagasy.  This turned out to be nothing compared to our trip a few days later where they somehow Tetris-ed 27 people (we took an official head count), 3 barrels of fish and multiple chickens (we couldn't see them, but we could hear their squawking protests coming from underneath the seats) into the back of a standard-sized pick up truck.  I'm not even nervous anymore, just continually impressed.  

Oh the Things I've Seen

The last couple weeks have been full of the most amazing wildlife adventures.  With 80% of the flora and fauna here only found in Madagascar (80%!), I've seen things I'd only been able to lust over while vegging out to the Discovery Channel (which I do more often than one might like to admit).  We've taken a three day boat trip down the Tsiribihina River, gone hiking in the Ranamofana Rainforest and trekked up and down Isalo National Park.  Every part of the trip has been unmercifully beautiful and incredibly unique.

The river trip was our first chance to use those outdoors skills we acquired way back in New Zealand.  Unfortunately that training did not prepare Kelly for deficating in the woods, but I think she adapted nicely in the end.  The "boat" that was to carry four people, our big back packs, two tents, three days of food (including a live chicken), camping stove and accoutrements was the traditional Malagasy perogue.  A perogue in actuality is nothing more than a hollowed out log.  Hollowed out by hand that is.  I had no idea those were even used outside of the Museum of Natural History.  Nevertheless, the vessel was sea worthy and we were game.  Sort of.  I was more than a little nervous for the three days of paddling that lie ahead, but I figured if I didn't talk about it, it wouldn't be so bad.  Nearing departure, I finally addressed my fears with Kelly and she said, "Oh shit, I didn't think we'd be rowing at all!".  Thank god it was her premonition that turned out to be true.  Instead a lone man named Suja paddled mine, Kelly's and our guide, Jose's, asses around in the blistering heat for three days down that river.  I should also mention that at the end of our journey Suja then had to paddle the boat back up river to get back home.  Which is another SEVEN days of paddling.  Alone.  Immediately after learning this information I stopped respecting Ironman athletes.

We saw birds in every shape, color and size.  The Grey Herring is a monstrocity of the version we have back home and looks exactly like a Teradactyl or at least what I assume a Teradactyl looks like based on the CGI version in Jurrasic Park II.  Other crazy creatures included: lemurs, chameleons, lizards, snakes, crocodiles and big fucking spiders.  I tried my best to not be a total pansy over the child-sized arachnids, but the flash backs of being bitten by a Hobo Spider won over and I usually resorted to squeeling like a little girl.  Our guide was always very assuring when we asked if people were ever hurt by the crocodiles.  Only sometimes.  Whew.

So the funny/not funny part about two white girls being on the water for three days in the African sun is that it takes a lot of effort to prevent serious burning.  It is even harder since you cannot buy sunscreen here.  Anywhere.  We looked.  We asked.  We begged.  And we were laughed at.  Of course they don't use sunscreen here, nobody is light enough to even consider burning.  Luckily we were armed with half a bottle of sunscreen leftover from Thailand.  The majority of protection, however, was achieved by swaddling our bodies head to toe in sarongs and bandanas topped with some ridiculous looking hats.  We were mocked constantly by the children who resided in the villages along the river.  Giggling and yelling "Vuzza!" at us, which literally translates to white foreigner.  Guilty as charged.  Vuzza sounds like it should be a sort dish soap or maybe some new slang you might hear in gangster rap  (we're working on the second verse now).  It also sounds alarming close to "Sluzza", the Kiwi's endearing word meaning slut.  Either way; whitey, dish soap or whore, it makes you feel good inside.

We continued our National Geographic escapade down south, hitting the Ramanofana National Rainforest and Isalo National Park.  Ramanofana is teeming with multiple species of lemurs.  In one morning hike we saw Brown Lemurs, Red Belly Lemurs, Golden Bamboo Lemurs, Greater Bamboo Lemurs and Sifaka Lemurs.  And I mean we SAW them.  Like reach-out-and-touch-somebody saw them.  It was mind boggling to see these creatures so close up without the advantage of being in a zoo or having to falsely lure them with peanuts.  Lemurs are only found in Madagascar and pre-date monkeys, so go wrap your mind around that.  Kelly has been itching to see lemurs since a report she did as a gangly nine year-old in elementary school; 20 years later and we have ourselves a dream achiver ladies and gentleman.

Isalo National Park was no dissapointer either.  Vastly different from the rainforest, Isalo looks more like Colorado when we first arrived.  We had a long day of hiking over sandstone hills and into the canyon.  The dry sandstone hills would randomly give way to palm tree lined sandy river beds or a waterfall or a natural fresh water pool (which we, of course, took advantage of everytime).  We then were lucky enough to finally see the infamous Ring-Tailed Lemur.  They were one of my favorites to watch and again so special to see them up close and personal (nevermind that one came awkwardly close to pooping on me).

While Madagascar has been more difficult that usual to adapt to, the trade off is that I get to live out my fantasy as Jack Hannah; seeing and interacting with the most unique wildlife on the planet (yuck, that's almost sappy enough to put on a magnet).  Off for some more exploring.  Next; the elusive and endangered species of SPF.

Yes, those are totally bathing suits

Wheeling and Dealing

We met our guide- a Butterball shaped man named Laurent, when he approached us at Buffet de Jardin, a restaurant and local prostitute soliciting ground.  Fortunately he approached us as potential tourists, not as potential prostitutes as the Italian men had earlier.  Madagascar has yet to develop anything resembling an organized tourist industry, so arranging a two week wildlife tour outside a tour office (never mind the whore hang out) is more on the up and up than one might imagine.  Don't worry we checked his credentials and that he was properly licensed (being experts in spotting fraudulent Madagascar papers, obviously).  The exchange only started feeling like a Tijuana drug deal when we literally passed him the deposit; a two-inch stack of 1,000,000 in Madagascar currency under the table (that's only after we had to go to the bathroom to count it in a stall together - where's a camera when you need one?).  You never want to openly handle money in shady Antananarivo in the first place, but we especially didn't need the extra attention at our current hooker round up.  Contracts signed, all we could do is cross our fingers in hopes he showed up to pick us up for our wildlife adventure. 

Sketchy deal success!  He actually showed up to pick us up the next day and early!  I guess we do have a sixth sense when it comes to judging character (...maybe).  Later when his river guide asked if we were pretty, his response was that we were "not so bad".  Krista and Kelly coming out on top.  

With the sweet song of success "Chariots of Fire" running through my head, we hit the road blazing.  Half an hour later my victory song screeches to a stop when the car breaks down.  After waiting two hours for the mechanic to show up for roadside assistance, our Oompa Loompa decides that it would be best if his friend took us the rest of the way to Antsiribe where he would rendezvous with us the next day with his repaired vehicle.  It may have crossed our minds that this could be a scam and really even sounds like scams we've been warned against.  I should mention at this point we have given him the second installment of money (aka the second giant wad of cash).  But what the hell, we're already on this adventure, so let's do the damn thing.

We jump into the friend's/stranger's car and take off into the unknown (well not really, it's the only freeway around here).  Unbeknownst to us, his friend was apparently a derby driver in a past life, the G forces of the rallying requiring us to take another dose of Dramamine.  Having little to talk about due to the language barrier (and to avoid spewing on his upholstery) he cranked up the tunes.  Though the language barrier may have been wide, it was soon bridged by a Golden Gate of melodies.  Mariah Carry to the Scorpions back to Brittany Spears and all wrapped up with the ultimate dance party mix.  Forget strangers, we were soulmates.  

And how's this for shockers, not only did we make it safely but, holy shit, our bowling ball of a guide even showed up the next day with his janky, but repaired vehicle in tow.  Our getting-screwed-over instincts prevailing once again.  Only requiring a few minutes of tinkering under the hood this time and we were off to Miandrivazo, the port where we were to embark on our three day river adventure.  Compared to the over-confident and abrasive Florent, our river guide Jose (pronounced Zoo-zay... who knew) was a darling, polite man.  We were glad to ditch Florent for a few days in exchange for an overly polite Jose.  

Preparing for the filthiness only a three day camping trip under the African sun can produce, Kelly was nice enough to french braid my mane to keep it out of my soon-to-be grimy face.  Kelly longingly described how much she would love to have cornrows like most of the locals around here while I in response did not hesitate to let her know how utterly stupid I thought white people look with them.  We've all seen them- the family from Texas on vacation in Hawaii or Jamaica; the daughter, mother, dad and family dog with matching sunburns and cornrows finished with those multicolored beads.  G.R.O.S.S.  Anyway, Kelly began the process of taming my hair for our excursion.  The hotel housekeeper found Kelly and my white girl hair particularly amusing and took a break to watch the show.  Not speaking a lick of English, she eventually sidled up to Kelly and then literally bumped her out of the way to take control of my mane.  We assumed she was going show Kelly a different technique or maybe she was just tired of watching an ameture fumble over a task she'd perfected at the age of five.  After a few moments though, we realized she had an agenda of her own.  40 minutes later I had a head full of braids, which some might call cornrows.  I've never had such a visual representation of me unceremoniously eating my words.  Instant karma- a white girl bearing shame for all to see.  At least it kept my pony mane at bay and out of my face for the next few days (and to be evidenced for the rest of my life in all future river adventure pictures).  

Ok...the evidence