Madagascar. I guess it's what I expected; the unexpected. Only hitting the capital of Antananarivo this week, we have yet to embark on our wilderness jungle trek to find lemurs and other strange flora and fauna. I'm just now getting on board the Antananarivo train. Initially it was enough to send me into acute travelers' shock (also see; adult temper tantrums). Even after six months of straight travel, this is so different from anything I've even come close to experiencing.
I've gotten used to English being the second language of all the countries we've visited. I've made a sincere attempt to learn at least some of the local language wherever we go, supplementing with sign language and my mother tongue. Madagascar's second language after Malagasy though is French (How do you say "oh shit" in French). We bought a phrase book, but the language barrier in addition to this being the weirdest place I've ever been is a hard adjustment. I'm glad to say that "bon jour" and "merci" said with a shit eating grin have been going a long way though.
Even if I could speak the language there is a popsicle's chance in hell of blending in here. In SE Asia at least we were part of (which doesn't equal proud of) a common tourist trail, running into other nomads of a similar cloth. There is no such commonality here. I can count on one hand the number of white people I've seen so far. People will blatantly point, gawk and follow you around while laughing at you. Everywhere I go people are hollering the French word for vanilla at me. Which was off-putting and, awkwardly, slightly flattering until, after two days here, I realized they were actually trying to sell me vanilla beans. Who's the stupid tourist? I mean, I can't blame them, we look weird and sweaty compared to everyone else. I just don't know how to adjust to the kind of celebrity where people are taking pictures of you buying gum.
If that wasn't intimidation enough, there is the outstanding crime rate to deal with in the city. The guide books warned us you could not even go out with a bag as it you are doomed for certain robbery. Our lovely hotel host even warned us multiple times to never leave with a bag or with anything in your pockets. Which leaves you with the only option of using one of those stomach pooch enhancing money belts that you wear under your pants. Besides the dork factor, it's really not that bad except it looks like you are reaching into your underwear every time you have to pay the drink bill. Other popular seedy activities include the ever present prostitution, another reason to avoid going out at night (some Italian tourists mistook us for hookers already). Oddly enough though, the local whorehouse is quite a popular and legitimate dining establishment. Specializing in fancy French delicacies and desserts at a bargain, we visited for some lunch and serious people watching. My food was quite delicious and the people watching (voyerism may be more appropriate in this case) was fascinating, gross and fun all at the same time. When the bill came, it made reaching into that money belt all the more fascinating. Lunch at a whorehouse, now that's another first (that I know of) to put in the travel log.
We're heading out on a two week wildlife trekking adventure tomorrow. Madagascar is not the most cutting edge when it comes to the technology that is the world wide web and I imagine the rainforest is scant on broadband. So it is with a heavy hart that I must warn you that you may not hear from me during this stretch. Save your tears for the whales and Lindsay Lohan, I promise I'll be back soon. Au revoir!
Antananarivo
Mt. Kilimanjaro from the plane!
I hope you wore those awesome pants for the river trip too. They really complete your new look!
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