If it's not Scottish it's Crap

Technical difficulties prevented me from posting until now.  Sorry for the delay.  I'm sure all five of you who read this were deeply upset.  

After ten days in Ireland we boarded the outrageously early (but cheap!) flight to Edinburgh, Scotland.  I find myself wanting to draw stereotypical comparisons between Ireland and Scotland, but that would indeed be stereotypical and pretty inaccurate.  Even my untrained ear can tell the difference between an Irish and Scottish accent; sexy versus very sexy.  One blaring difference is the liberal use of the kilt here.  Amen.  If I can be honest here, if nowhere else, man legs in a plaid skirt is all right by me.  Now if I could have only had a good look up one of them.  

The two countries are very similar in that it is cold as balls.  At one point while traipsing around Edinburgh it actually snowed.  Yes, May is early summer for them too.  All the nice kilt baring lads assured us this usually never happens, but the point is lost on us after spending five months in the tropics.  Anything below 70 degrees is arctic conditions for us.  I only just got used to the sensation of sweating through my underwear everyday from 8:00 am to 8:00 pm.  My months of diligent work on a golden brown tan has been quickly thwarted as well.  The healthy looking bronze color is rapidly being coated with the sexy, chalky film of ash.  How I will ever readapt to the states is a mystery.

So with the weather forecast being rain with the chance of torrential rain, I picked up my metaphorical kilt, grabbed my balls (less metaphorical) and braved the walking tour of Edinburgh.  It was also free and at this point in our trip and in the land of the Great Brittan Pound, I am not going to turn up the chance at a free anything.  Scotland is bursting with history, from the enlightenment period architecture to the events that led to their absorption into the United Kingdom to their most significant achievement since Mike Myers portrayal of the slovenly Scottish villain, Fat Bastard, in the Austin Powers movies.  That's right fellow dorks, Edinburgh is the birthplace of Harry Potter (as if you didn't know that already though).

Before the international phenomena that is Harry Potter when J.K. Rowling was too poor to heat her own apartment, she would spend her days at the local fire-warmed coffee shop, Elephant House Cafe.  This is where she wrote the first two books of what was to become the fanatically followed Harry Potter series.  The cafe proved to be an amazing point of interest on the tour.  What better way to pay homage to the books I love then by getting a warm cappuccino (also the perfect place to ditch the walking tour that continued to slosh through the downpour for three hours).  I will proudly (somewhat ashamedly) admit that I have read all seven books at least a few times.  I resisted the seeming fad for a long time and if you are still bad mouthing and boycotting them to maintain your "I'm too hip to lower myself to read a mass-consumed children's book" facade, well just get over yourself already and drink the Kool Aid.  Plus, no matter your reading level it will make you feel like a genius when you rip through a 500 page book in a day and a half.  Then you'll also know what the hell I'm talking about when I say I also saw the mid-evil looking castle-like school that J.K. Rowling based Hogwarts on.  Suck it!

In addition to living out the Harry Potter dream, I did actually learn a few educational tid-bits about Edinburgh.  Things such as how several churches are shutting down due to declining attendance and how to properly drink scotch whiskey (which, in my opinion, may have contributed to the reduced interest in the sacramental wine).  After working out one evening, Kelly and I stopped by a pub for "dinner".  We ended up getting sucked in for hours after learning they were holding trivia night followed by a little karaoke. I should lie and say we placed first in trivia, but we in fact shamed America and placed dead last.  What can I say, current events is a rough category when you just arrived in a foreign country and haven't read a newspaper in months.  Sweet redemption, however, came during the karaoke portion of the evening.  Kelly, in her workout spandex and running shoes, gave the best damn eight and a half minute rendition of Meatloaf's "I Would Do Anything for Love" to a crowd of confused Scots.  By minute three though she had the whole crowd enthralled.  So much so that the group of hot Scottish lesbians (one with adult braces) in the corner were heartbroken and begging her to stay when we left after her performance.  Kelly speaking the international language of gay; undying love songs and workout clothes.

 

Just writing a little message to Harry Potter/defacing the Elephant House Cafe

Kiss Me I'm Irish

After a solid week of bumming at Kelly's over generous family friend's house we took off for a few days to bum about with our other favorite hosts.  By some miracle we were able to meet up with the Joblins in Mallow, Ireland.  You might vaguely remember that the Joblins were the very first people we stayed with seven months ago when we began this adventure in Nelson, New Zealand.  Fate is terribly convenient sometimes.  

Maureen and Leigh are experts in the field of bovine artificial insemination.  Yep, elbow deep in cow sphincter all day.  And like any good snarky asshole, I made sure to make inappropriate comments at every chance I got.  For example, on the picturesque train ride to Mallow I saw a bull mounting a cow and I thought, "Hey, stop it, that's Maureen's job"!  So when Maureen got home from work carrying a ten-gallon bucket I jumped at the opportunity to sarcastically ask if she was shlepping around gallons of semen with her (my maturity level has sunk to new levels when I'm asking my friend's parents if they brought home a whole cattle ranch worth of bull jiz).  Well, it turned out to be a valid question after all as Maureen, with an air of satisfaction, retorted that it was undoubtedly a gigantic vessel of cow spunk.  Joblins: 1, Krista: 0.

The Joblins were very kind to entertain us (in addition to all of the semen jokes provided) by taking us to their local watering hole.  Also known as The Mouse Trap, it is an old Irish pub about the size and similarly decorated as my grandma's living room.  The patrons were fantastically warm and welcoming (well at least the parts of the conversation we picked up through their thick country accents) and we had ridiculously good time bumping gums with the locals.  We had the luck of dropping in on the same night as their weekly sing along.  Every Thursday the regulars get together to sing traditional Irish and other folk songs, each person taking turns starting and leading the group.  Even as the new kids we were not spared and were expected (forced) to participate fully.  I have no problems singing in a group (by group I mean a car full of my friends screeching along to Lady Gaga), but you will never (never = NEVER) see me get up to sing a solo.  Even drunk karaoke is out of the question and I've been to karaoke night roughly 6.5 million times.  All my friends can attest that, even with all of their peer pressuring, I have never taken the stage.  Luckily Kelly is great at this kind of thing.  She took the reigns and sang a gorgeous folk song that brought the house down.  Thank god I have friends that who pick up the slack for me since coattail riding is one of my specialties.  Despite the steady lager intake that evening, the Irish still caught onto my little game and were not going to let me slide so easily.  F word.  So now I'm nervous because I have to sing in front of a group of strangers and I'm doubly freaked out because I don't know a single Irish/folk/semi-appropriate song by heart.  Now if you wanted me to rap Snoop Dogg's "Gin and Juice" from memory, sure.  I somehow didn't think that would suffice in small-town Ireland.  In a panic I pulled out an oldie from 6th grade choir...The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.  Super Irish and folky, it's a wonder nobody joined in.  

Now if singing folk songs with the countrymen in an Irish pub doesn't sound cliché enough for you, we also managed to fit in the number one Ireland tourist activity.  No, not the Leprechaun Museum, though that seems to be disturbingly popular as well.  We shelled out the 12 Euro and went to the Blarney Castle to kiss the infamously filthy Blarney Stone.  250,000 people a year visit the Blarney Stone to spit, pee, place their lips upon and god knows what else to that unimpressive rock.  Even the guidebook, the bible of stupid tourist activities, suggested foregoing the geological make out session.  Lonely Planet endorses the seediest of night clubs, but deems the Blarney Stone unsanitary.  Perhaps the suggestion to abstain should have been taken seriously, but I paid 12 god damn Euro so I crossed my fingers and puckered up.  Kissing the festering brick is supposed to give you the gift of gab.  The more immediate effect, however, was the overwhelming urge to scour all of the skin off my lips.  At least I can say I did it.  Which will make the cold sores worth it?  

One of the dirtiest things I've put my mouth on...and that is probably saying something

I'll give you one guess

Singing in the Rain

We finally made it to the land of civilization.  Yes, Ireland.  I think that's what most people call it at least.  Poor Ireland has it rough right now; it's May and feels like winter, the economy is in the shitter, unemployment is at an all time high and booze has become so expensive that the legendary Irish pub culture is dying.  So for me it's been the happiest place on earth.  I've had a permanent grin on my face and an irresistible urge to jig since landing here for many reasons which include, but are not limited to, the following:

1.  English!
     1 a.  English with an Irish accent (hubba hubba)
2.  The stereotypes are false, the Irish are WAY friendlier than that
3.  No one has attempted to squeeze my arms...yet
4.  Whiskey 
5.  Puppies!

Well, the family we are staying with happens to have a new puppy at least.  This really compliments my new lifestyle of spending rainy days inside, reading all day and drinking endless cups of coffee while snuggling with a puppy.  Our timing for descending on the unsuspecting family couldn't have been better, just in time for the cute puppy months without the obligation of potty training them.  We are staying with Kelly's family friends who coincidentally are the nicest people in the entire world.  And I'm not just saying that because I'm fresh off the boat from third world Madagascar.  Though the fact that they have hot showers may be part of the reason that we are now lifetime friends.

Actually, most of the people we've encountered in Ireland are extremely friendly and more helpful than a room full of crossing guards.  The buses being one of the best parts of this city.  The drivers will sit there for five minutes discussing the best way to get downtown and then suggest a couple of places to get lunch, the cheapest haircut and your taxes done.  The other passengers don't even seem to mind that the driver has held up the bus and sometimes even step in to make additional recommendations and then to invite you over for dinner later.  In addition, the male bus patrons jump at the opportunity to give up their seat to anyone over the age of 15 and I haven't seen a single chicken attempting to take public transportation yet.

Only once have I even come close to being offended since being here.  After a night at the pubs, a young gentleman told me that I dressed like a hobo (his words, not mine).  First off, I am a hobo and do, in fact, dress the part.  This is what happens when you are living out of a backpack for a year and haven't been able to do laundry in over a month.  Secondly, he somehow still made it sound like a quasi-compliment (I will admit here that I am a shameless sucker for an Irish accent, but even then the insult was delivered with such a kind smile that you would have never considered the comment hostile).  Thirdly, he was drunk and clearly couldn't see just how well I was pulling off that smelly pair of leggings and sweat stained tank top.  Plus, once I explained to him that I was indeed a hobo and had only just arrived after spending the last five weeks in Africa, he conceded that I was at least a pretty hobo and then offered to show us around the city this week.  God bless the Irish.

 

Au Revoir Madagascar, You Fickle Friend

We leave Madagascar tomorrow.  I'm ready.  This will be the first (and hopefully only) time that I will admit to a bout of homesickness on this trip.  This was one of the more rewarding countries to visit, but it was down right hard to get used to.  I suppose that's what "they" say though.  I do find it interesting that in the end I actually did acclimate to some of the bizarre shit that happens here.  You want me to pay you to ride in that heap of rusting scrap metal that hasn't passed emissions since 1945 with 30 other people (and their chickens) who are going to stare and laugh at me for the next 12 hours?  Sure!  The following should summarize some of the things I never thought I'd get used to in this country but somehow it all now feels like par for the course:

Public Transportation - As I've eluded to over the past couple weeks, public transportation is one bearded lady away from a roving circus.  When we do get the luxury of taking a cab in the big city, we are flabbergasted when the doors have handles and the car doesn't have to be hot-wired to start (an actual key must be a symbol of prosperity here).  Only the big cities, however, have actual taxis.  Otherwise the primary mode of intercity travel is by pousse-pousse (oh, it's pronounced just as you imagined) and often abbreviated as poussey (again, just how you imagined).  So when you walk down the street and men are yelling "poussey" at every corner it is not a come on, though this was initially confusing since prostitution is not a lost art in Madagascar.  The name pousse-pousse is not even the most awkward thing about them.  They are a simple wooden carriage that would be reminiscent of a horse-drawn cart of yore, the only difference being that they are pulled by a running human being.  A barefoot running human being.  As if I wasn't already in awe of the Malagasy standard of fitness, the men (ranging in age from prepubescents to grandfathers) run these pousseys around all day long for kilometers at a time.  Nothing, absolutely nothing, makes you feel more slovenly than another human being pulling your fat ass around.  Where the hell I'm a going that I couldn't possibly walk there (with proper footwear mind you) and I would need to opt for someone to pull me instead?  Ok, I did it but it felt awful, which makes it better, right?  

Celebrity - The biggest challenge was getting used to my new profession as a circus freak.  The laughing, the pointing, the hollering, the solicitations from the men, women and children was overwhelming at first.  It was rarely aggressive, but it was constant and exhausting.  Oddly enough it wasn't just our skin color that was causing all the attention (though that is the blaring beacon that draws the initial curiosity).  It turns out that the men love my big arms (only a close second to my big ass).  Without asking they would stroke and squeeze my biceps (thank god they did not take that approach with my ass).  One guy at our bus station pointed to a poster of Avril Lavine (who's posters are plastered all over here along with the equally popular posters of Jesus) then pointed to his flexed arms and then to me as if saying, "Hey, you look like Avril but with big arms!".  Then he gave me a thumbs up and an approving nod.  They really know how to sweet talk a lady here.  What can I say, my arms are a crowd pleaser.  I'm thinking of taking them on tour next fall.  While I no longer feel acute anxiety about walking down the street, the sense of anonymity is the biggest reason I'm looking forward to Europe (that in addition to the ease of travel, less language barriers and the availability of toilet paper).  I have considered, however, that I might have developed a complex after all these months of fame.  What will I do in Europe when I am not hit on by every single man, simply blending into the sea of white people?  I have already gotten used to a life of people taking unauthorized cell phone pictures of me, people "accidentally" bumping into me just to touch my skin and daily marriage proposals.  I'm not sure I can go back to the attention void the life of a commoner.  

Zebu - Lacking traditional cows, Zebu is the beef of Madagascar.  They are simply delicious, our cattle should start looking to the Zebu for tips on tenderness and flavor.  In addition to their tasty parts, they are down right hilarious.  They look like a prehistoric cow crossed with a camel.  They have huge horns and a hump of fat on their back that comically jiggles about when they walk.  This gelatinous back dance is even funnier when they run, which is an awkward gait at best.  The Madagascar landscape is plentiful in Zebu which makes it the most popular protein choice, especially because the chicken here all look like they have eating disorders.  Unfortunately I don't think you can get Zebu anywhere else, I guess I'll have to redefine my palate to include regular old beef once again.  

Mosquito Repellent - The bug spray addiction is actually a continuation from Bali and SE Asia.  I've been slathering my body in Deet, Citronella and other disgusting chemicals for over five months now.  I think we've far exceeded the recommended continuous usage.  Luckily we are finally leaving a malaria region before my skin has started peeling or blistering (one of the actual warnings on the cautionary label).  I will admit that the toxic sprays have actually started to smell pretty good these days, especially since being in a country where laundry and showers are at a premium.  Dare I say it even acts as a nice, well at least effective, deodorizing spray.  It might as well be the Axe Body-spray of Africa since you have to put it on immediately after exiting the shower lest your body be ravaged by the mosquitos.  I by no means have gotten used to the actual mosquitos though.  No matter how many months of dealing with bite covered flesh, those guys can still go fuck themselves.

Flys - The fly situation can only be described by referring you to the Sally Struthers commercials where they ask you to sponsor a child for only the cost of your daily cup of coffee.  You know the ones.  Flys relentlessly crawling all over everyones' faces and you wonder how the hell can people sit there without taking even one defensive swat.  I now know how.  Spend five weeks in Africa where the flys outnumber you by 7 billion to 1 and they will assuredly break you.  And break me they did.  Oh I tried to beat them away in the beginning, but they hardly took notice of my protests.  Slap one off your arm and, in return, five will land on your face.  It just becomes a waste of energy ofter awhile and that creepy, crawly tickling sensation eventually becomes bearable and then hardly noticeable and then one day you realize that the whole time you've been eating your breakfast 20 flys have been traversing the landscape of your flesh and with your new deflated sense of hygiene you just sigh and go back to eating your eggs with that glazed over look in your eyes.  One time back home I was watching a documentary on National Geographic where a group of field scientists were studying a rare species of sand snake, or something like that, in Africa.  During an interview with one of the scientists the flys were typically dense and kept landing on this poor guy's eyelids, nostrils and lips while he was talking into the camera.  It made me itch to watch it happen yet he barely batted an eye and all I could think was, holy shit that guy has gone native.  This all apparently meaning that I am officially Malagasy now.  Or not.  

Please don't get confused though, just because I've gotten used to some of this nonsense doesn't not mean that I'll even remotely miss it.  Ok, I'll miss the Zebu.  And the lemurs.  And the $0.05 cups of coffee.  And the delicious rice flour pastries.  And the hiking.  And the natural springs.  And the cheap transportation (Europe here we come!).  And the wildlife.  And maybe, just maybe the attention.

    

Kelly in a poussey

Making friends on public transportation - this is after this guy asked me for my banana, my shirt, my watch and my sunglasses

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