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
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