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.