Thunderbirds Are Go!

 

Since we’re on the subject of climaxes (as I was last post) and denouements, it’s probably about time to put this puppy to bed. All that’s left is 1 more boring day driving back to Tana, after a 9 hour slog today, a couple of days at what I’m praying is a swanky hotel and a 2 day flight home (broken up by a day layover in Paris, which now looks like it will be spent in an airport hotel room. C'est la vie). So, hopefully, absolutely nothing to write home about.

If you’ve been reading this blog faithfully - like good little girls & boys - you can probably already guess my verdict on Madagascar. In a nutshell:

               too                 too             too

              much     +     much    +   much

              work             time          money     

Of course there are caveats. I only saw a sliver of the country & NOT what are claimed to be its best beaches and top sights. However, even given that, I think I can draw some fairly obvious conclusions.

1. Even if those beaches are amazing, I guarantee they’re no nicer than, say, Santa Teresa in Costa Rica (Caitlin’s former stomping grounds). Why would you fly halfway around the world for something you can get more cheaply & much more comfortably? It’s not like you’re going to be hanging with locals there.

Hauntingly beautiful beachfront in Morondava.

2. If you plan on seeing any national parks, you’re going to have to drive at least 7 or 8 hours over unimaginable roads to get to each one. And while having a driver at least relieves you of having to focus every fucking second to keep from destroying your car, you’re still going to be jolted unmercifully, which may detract from your enjoyment of the scenery. You could fly on what may be the world’s most unreliable airline, but then you’re missing most of the good scenery. I still can’t believe it’s hardly ever mentioned in books or videos. It’s a BIG deal. As far as I’m concerned, any drive here is a variation on a Star Trek eternal loop:

“Hey, only 30 km to go. I’ll be there in no time.”

NO, YOU WON’T.

“Whoa! What the hell happened to the road? Oh man, this is the worst ever!”

NO, IT ISN’T.

“Whew, at last! Good looking pavement ahead. Well, at least that’s over with.”

NO, IT’S NOT.

Repeat as necessary.

3. It’s not as expensive as Uganda, but it’s not cheap either, and I didn’t even go to the most touristy places. You’ll do okay for around $60 - $80, but if you want someplace nice - and after 8 hours on the road, you just might - you’re going to be paying well over $100. Maybe that’s considered cheap now (“loaf of bread? 10 cents, right?”).

This bungalow will set you back $120 per night.

4. Get ready for some serious poverty. It’s right up there with India when it comes to in-your-face destitution. For example (and it’s just one of many):

I’ve been places where cars are rare but nothing comes close to this. No matter where you are or how far it is to the closest town, you’ll constantly see people walking down the highway - many of them barefoot. And I’m talking 20-30 kms. Having a bicycle here is a big fucking deal.

“Did you hear? Mobutu got a bicycle.”

“I told you he was destined for great things!”

If they’re not walking, they’re sitting by the roadside or in an oxcart. We’re talking Dark Ages here.

See? Swear to God, absolute Middle of Nowhere.

Honestly, I think plenty of people here would give their left nut to live in the townships of South Africa or a favela in Rio.

“Wait a second. Are you telling me you’ve got 4 walls AND a roof? Water? Toilet? Electricity? Hell yeah, I’m in!”

“Quaint “ fishing huts.

Marco Mark:  C

And I’m being generous. Truthfully, again I can’t think of anyone I know (or don’t) who might really enjoy the whole experience. But maybe it’s just me. There seem to be a lot of geriatrics here, and nobody’s bitching or moaning, at least not to me, so who knows.

A good indicator of my relationship with Madagascar is my reaction (one I keep to myself) when I meet expat owners of hotels here - and there are quite a few:

“You could have done this anywhere in the world and you chose to do it HERE?”

Do I regret coming? Absolutely not.

Would I come again? Absolutely not.

Crying Underpants

 climax  

/ˈklaɪˌmæks/

 

1 

a : the most exciting and important part of a story, play, or movie that occurs usually at or near the end

b : the most interesting and exciting part of something : the high point

2 

: the most intense point of sexual pleasure 

No, you filthy pigs. Not the second one, although I will  admit to a breathless “Oh yeah!” and perhaps even a “Oh, Baobob, you’re so BIG!”

I’m talking about the culmination of my trip - my visit to L’Avenue des Baobobs. As you’ll soon see however, even such an awe-inspiring event is tinged with a Malagasy twist. However, before I descend into my rant, allow me to whet your appetite.

And yes, they really are that big. Supposedly some of these are almost 1000 years old and over 25 metres tall. Take my word for it - they’re fucking HUGE.

But let’s pause for a moment and take a step back while I briefly rave about my journey there. All I knew about getting there was that it would take me about 45 minutes from the hotel. Perhaps I should have been alerted when my hotel lady asked if I had a “good, big 4x4”. Yeah, possible hint there.

In any case, when I turned off the highway about 14 km from town and almost immediately encountered gaping holes and virtual moats, my first thought was “Google Maps, you’re fucking me in the arse again, aren’t you?” I mean, seriously - how could this possibly be the route to one of Madagascar’s major tourist attractions?

See what I mean? And, as always, these aren’t the worst parts. Not possible.

And, to make all my doubts even worse, the only other “vehicles” I encountered were rickshaws and a bush taxi or two. NOT encouraging signs. Amazingly, it actually turned out to be the correct route and eventually (VERY eventually) there I was - shaken not stirred. Fucking Madagascar! 

Luckily for you, I’m not going to describe my return trip - in the dark. Let’s just say all the same characters - people, rickshaws, tuk-tuks - and not a light in sight.

I’m not going to waste your time blathering on about how awe-inspiring the trees were and how there must be a God. Take a look and trust me - they’re absolutely amazing.

There’s one in every crowd.

Ta-da!

So the question is was it worth 2 days of 8 hour drives (plus the 2 days it’s going to take to get back) over sometimes horrific roads? I think so, although my judgement may be slightly skewed by my desperate quest for a “climactic” sight. Tough call, but, as of now, no regrets.

Veni, vidi, vinci.

Silken Hush Puppies

Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale,

A tale of a fateful trip

That started from this tropic port

With a man who’d lost his grip.

(apologies to Gilligan’s Island)

So yesterday I finally got to bring my wounded beast in for repairs. Naturally, the first thing they tell me is that they have no idea when they’ll get around to it. 

“Maybe today, maybe tomorrow.”

“You cocksuckers!” I thought (to myself). “Do you not realize who I am?”

Obviously not. In any case, I figured the most efficient way to get sympathy was to park myself in their office, wearing a hang-dog expression and sighing audibly from time to time. And you know what? It worked - two hours later.

The Beast failing her diagnostic test.

Within half an hour, she was out, and I prepared to hit the road. Not so fast. A quick test drive revealed that the left rear leaf spring had snapped. Now the real fun began. Representatives were called in and frantic messages were transmitted. Here’s just a sample:

“Not available in Tulear. Closest one is an 8 hour drive away in Fianarantsoa.”

“Welding can't be guaranteed to make it with current state of the road.”

“But usually leave springs only break after a big impact. Not normal use.”

(My reply to this being: “No idea. Didn’t have any huge impact that I can recall.” Perhaps a bit of a white lie but, as it turns out, justifiable.)

“Sorry but no other option than getting it replaced tomorrow.”

Bottom line - I’m here for another day at least and since I had no intention of staying in Tulear, I had to find a way to get back to my hotel in Mangily. A quick phone call to Patrick left me with 2 options -an expensive tuk-tuk or going local with a bicycle rickshaw and taxi-brousse (literally “bush taxi”)

Difficult to see the 37 people crammed inside, but, believe me, they’re there.

“Oh well, what the hell,” I decided, even though I still remembered the agony of the 3 hour taxi brousse ride in Lesotho, with the 200 pound grandma on my lap.

“This,” I thought, “is why people get a car & driver.”

No matter. Out to the street, where I immediately got a rickshaw.

“Statione taxi brousse à Mangily,” I commanded. “Toute suite.”

Here we go!

You gotta feel for these guys. Firstly there a a million of them, so competition is fierce. And because they make so little money (around $.50 for my 15 minute ride), the condition of their rickshaws is beyond laughable. The chain is constantly skipping & banging and they have to use a giant stick attached to the handlebar to slow down. Not to mention navigating through heavy truck & car traffic - without EVER looking behind. It’s a shitshow.

Constant state of affairs. Zoom in to see the giant “ brake lever”.

Phase 2: as you pull up to the taxi brousse station, you are immediately and forcibly assaulted by “touts”, for lack of a better word - guys whose job it is to get you into THEIR taxi, since, once again, it’s a jungle out there. The trick for you, as a passenger, is to try & find one that’s full, since no taxi leaves until it is packed to the gills - and beyond. Here’s a good rule of thumb: count the number of seats in the van & then double it. That will get you within hailing distance. Sometimes there’s no choice, since they’ll literally grab your bags from you & throw them on top of the van. No take-backs. Welcome aboard.

Now begins the inevitable wait. As a foreigner, no matter how full you think the van is, it’s NOT. So we sit, with the van running and music blaring inside (an absolute rule). And we wait, and we wait. 

Unfortunately you can’t hear, but this is the hassling that’s an integral part of the recruiting process.

By the grace of God, and this young girl’s generosity and quick thinking, I got moved to the front seat with her. Halleluiah! No fat granny for me.

Finally we pull out, only to stop about 100 meters up the road so they can write down everyone’s name & collect payment (in my case around a dollar). As the driver gets back in, I notice he’s stuffing bills in every nook & cranny he can find - above the window & windshield, in the front dashboard, etc.

“WTF?” I think, and then I remember the story Gege told me, a variation on the classic “police roadblock.” Turns out that in the past, the police were stopping everyone to do the quick cash grab. However, at some point, one of the ruling Fat Cats decided he’d get into the tourist business. Inevitably, one of his buses was rousted, the driver refused to pay and the tourists were “inconvenienced.”  Guess what happened next.

 So now, the police have to make all their money from these poor taxi brousse drivers. Sure enough, at every roadblock - and there are plenty - there’s a slow-down and an ultra smooth handoff of the bills. Ah, Africa!

Nothing more to report. Of course the car wasn’t ready yesterday, but I was assured by Monsieur Olivier, who’s working on it, that it would be done today. Amazingly, and undoubtedly through the auspices of Patrick, who seems to carry a lot of weight around here, the car was actually ready, although only at the final hour. Who cares? Now, an uneventful 4 day drive to Morondava and the Baobobs. Then home.

What could possibly go wrong?

Freud’s Folly

HE JUST NEVER LEARNED

That’s what I’m going to have engraved on my virtual tombstone - one I’ll probably have sooner rather than later if I continue ignoring every logical & rational thought that happens to wander through my brain.

I seriously considered simply glossing over this unfortunate incident or just bald-face lying, since it will undoubtedly cement my position in The Clueless Traveller Hall of Fame, but fair’s fair. 

According to Patrick, the affable and experienced  owner of my present hotel, my adventure was a classic combination of stupidity & dumb luck. 

Stupidity (the main ingredient in case you hadn’t already guessed): ignoring my inexperience & instead relying on some bad advice & information to head off  by myself. “SO dangerous! I would NEVER go there alone.” Good to know.

Luck: in making it out unharmed - or at all

What else is new? 

Here’s how the deal went down:

Early yesterday morning I headed out of Tulear, having accomplished all my mundane tasks, and brimming with confidence that within a couple of hours I’d be sitting on the deck of my luxurious stone bungalow, gazing at the sparkling sea, fruity welcome drink in hand. 

The first hour was great - smooth pavement all the way. Then the inevitable dirt road turnoff.

“Not a problem,” I thought to myself. “Been there, done that.”

All good, until I came over a rise and noticed that the road in front of me had disappeared under a lake. There was, however, a smaller road off to the right, so…

I couldn’t tell you how long this road wandered aimlessly through the bush, but long enough for me to start wondering if it was ever going to end. Just then - Voila! The main road.

“Well,” I said to myself, “that’s enough excitement for today.”

Oh foolish man!

A few minutes later, a village appeared.

“Ah, good. Civilization.”

Yes and no. Plenty of people, none of whom spoke French, and what looked like yet another impassable road. A spirited debate ensued, finally seemingly settled when everyone moved en masse to the road and started gathering stones, sticks and bamboo fronds and hurling them onto the offending section. Within minutes, it still looked mighty dodgy, but I felt I had to at least try after this Herculean group effort. Miraculously, I made it and everyone gathered around my truck - to celebrate I assumed. Go team go!

Nuh-uh. The ringleader stepped up to my window, stuck out his hand and, with a big smile (or perhaps smirk) said, ”Cadeaux, Monsieur.” 

Judging by the look on his face, “gift” may not have been the most accurate word. I may be dense, but I’m not that dense, and soon we were all basking in our newfound wealth and undying friendship.

Onward. Into a couple more villages, where my inquiries were met with either puzzled looks or two people pointing in two opposite directions, through sand and mud up to my axles, until…

A TRULY impassable lake obliterating the road, with not even a hint of a detour in sight. Words cannot express my profound and overwhelming sense of defeat, disbelief and depression as it dawned on me that I was going to have to go all the way back over the same territory it had just taken me two hours to cover and then try to find another route.

“Fuckity , fuck, fuck, fuck!” I howled.

“Boy!” you’re thinking,”That’s about as bad as it gets.”

Nope. Not even close.

As I dejectedly - and VERY carefully - turned around & headed back, the same thoughts were running through my semi-suicidal mind until I realized with a start that this wasn’t the same road I’d been on and was, in fact, a trail that had rapidly shrunken into an ox cart path. Google Maps didn’t seem to have any problem with this, and realistically what choice did I have? Before I knew it, I was thrashing  through giant cactus plants and overgrown bushes that were hammering against the side of the truck and flying onto the seats. I lost count of how many “paths” dead-ended with the computerized voice telling me,”In 200 metres, turn left,”

Worst case scenario? Don’t make me laugh.

NOW very strange and unsettling noises began to emanate from my supposedly indestructible vehicle. BAD noises. VERY BAD noises. The kind of noises you hear just before your car explodes, catches on fire or simply gives up the ghost.

“You ignorant twat!” my lizard brain was screaming at me. “ You’re going to fucking die out here in the middle of nowhere! How many times have I told you this would happen?”

I won’t keep you in suspense. I actually did make it back, saved at the last minute by a kindly, wizened,  little farmer whose yard I stumbled onto. I can only imagine what he must have thought as I pulled up, my eyes as big as saucers and undoubtedly with drool running down my chin, yelling,”Tulear! Tulear!”

He calmly walked me down the path, pointed out the correct fork and said, “Marumbo”, which I recognized as the name of the village I had passed through a hundred years ago. What the fuck must have been going through his mind?

Long story short, back through the village of my former triumph, where a local added insult to injury by trying to get me to pay him a toll to get by. One look at me and he turned and raised the bar. A wise decision.

And finally back to the highway, where I breathed a huge sigh of relief and swore (not for the first time & unfortunately probably not the last either)  NEVER to do anything that patently foolish ever again.

But here’s the kicker. When I reached the highway, I turned off the truck so I could get out, catch my breath and call my road trip guy. When I got back in the truck to drive back to Ifaty and turned the key - NOTHING. And I realized that if I had turned the truck off just once during all those stops and turnarounds I would have been absolutely stranded, probably for the foreseeable future. Sweet Jesus!

So that’s it. I wish I had taken some photos to embellish the narrative, but let’s just say I had other priorities.

Man, I really am too old for this shit. 

Courtesy of Sarah. Who knows you better than your own children?

Tortoise’s Laundry

Mission accomplished!

Those of you who’ve followed my misguided exploits over the years are undoubtedly aware that one of the absolute prerequisites for a “successful” trip is that I MUST hurt myself, ideally in a foolish and unnecessary way that severely interferes with whatever activities I had planned. I won’t dredge up each & every inane injury but certainly the log-kicking toe infection in Puerto Viejo , the surf crash in Santa Teresa & the high side in Vietnam spring immediately to mind. I’ll admit that I was getting a bit worried. Here I was, halfway through and not even a hint of a debilitating disaster.

Well, problem solved. This morning, right after I had booked 3 more leisurely sun & surf days, I was walking on the beach, minding my own business, when I barely scraped the bottom of my foot against a piece of coral.

“Fuck me!” I chided myself. ”That was stupid. Ah well, no real harm done.”

Incorrect. By the time I got back to the hotel, it was REALLY hurting, so I rinsed off my foot to take a look. Uh-oh! It looked like someone had taken a scalpel & cut a precise half-moon just behind my toes. Fortunately, the owner, a jolly rotund clone of Hercules Poirot,  & his sidekicks were right on it & quickly washed, disinfected and wrapped the mangled appendage.

“”Now, jus make sure you keep zat out of ze sand & water for a few days.” Of course.

Ready for inaction.

So that’s that. Perhaps for the best. The roads going up the west coast, my intended route, are completely out of commission due to the cyclone that passed through recently, so my only real option is to retrace my route back north and then cut across to check out The Avenue of the Baobobs. Besides, I was beginning to feel the faint stirrings of “blannui” (see below) so I’m cutting a week off the trip & heading home a bit early. Hopefully I’ll still be able to catch the tail end of winter.

Blannui: a sometimes debilitating combination of “blasé” and “ennui” suffered by the inveterate traveller. Symptoms include being unimpressed by events, sights or experiences that others seem to find breathtaking or overwhelming since you know you’ve already seen or done something similar but honestly MUCH better, combined with a feeling of boredom difficult to disguise when listening to aforementioned tourists.

Honestly, I’m really hoping that The Avenue of  the Baobobs can pull the proverbial rabbit out of its hat. We see.

Not wanting to leave you on a downer, here are some pre-injury photos from The Walk of Doom:

This is Sarodaro, a fishing village about a half hour up the beach from my hotel. These houses would be considered”middle class” suburban here. I’d show you the poorer side of town, but that would kind of defeat the purpose, right?

Before I leave, a confession - and one which will probably surprise absolutely no-one: I just couldn’t help myself. I’d been reading about Mamirano Lodge, which is WAY up the coast & owned by the legendary Rosanna, who as near as I can figure, has descended from heaven to make all your hotel dreams come true. I got Hantira, my new friend at the hotel to give her a call and guess what? She’s open & she’d LOVE to have me join her for a couple of nights. But first I’ll spend a night at the Ankasy Lodge, where the Fat Cats wallow in sybaritic splendour.

Fuck it. YOLO and whatever other saying I can conjure up to justify my idiocy.

 

Fart Carnival

 Beach Blanket Bingo, Baby!

That’s exactly what I saw in my immediate future as I pulled out early this morning for the now repetitive craters-in-the-highway, child-beggars, one-hour-dirt-road-drive that’s characterized my journeys thus far. 

We’re talking serious excitement here.

One new (for here at least) wrinkle was Toliara, a hellhole of a tourist town if ever there was one. It had absolutely everything I hope to avoid - dirty, smelly, jam packed with tourist, touts and cheap-ass hotels & bars. A dream come true. Luckily, a quick trip to the grocery store & I was outta there.

When I first set eyes on Eden Ecolodge, I thought,        ”Hell, yeah! At last!”

Unfortunately, I had jumped the gun, conclusion-wise. It turns out that I was eyeballing the Fat Cat bungalows, NOT the economy-sized models.

My first impression. See how easily I’m fooled?

Fat Cat bungalow

My “surfer dude” cabin, which would be fine except…

for the now“shared” bathroom. At 21, if someone had shown me a toilet that had to be flushed with water from the same barrel that I’m going to be pouring over my head for a shower, I would have said, ”Fucking A!” Now, not so much.

Still, I’m absolutely not complaining. Sure, the beach is far from pristine and the water is definitely not sparkling crystal-clear azure, but the sun is shining, the water is warm and I can walk down the beach as far as I like. 

So I’ll hang out here for another day & then head north in my quest for THE Beach. 

It’s a tough job but somebody’s got to do it.

Brainwashed Diapers

 Isalo National Park. Yeah, doesn’t mean fuck all to me either, but I’m here and so I’m going, in spite of the fact that, as always, I feel like I’m being ripped off. Let’s see:

$40 for my guide Toussaint

$25 for park entrance fees

$20 for someone to drive MY car to a pickup point

AND I’ve turned down a “special” zebu lunch in the forest and an extended trip to “The Black Swimming Pool.” (Ooooooh!)

Yeah, seems about right - if I was in New York City. What happened to Affordable Africa? As in,”Sure it’s scary, nobody speaks real English, the roads are nightmarish, the food is barely edible and anything could happen, and probably will, but it’s SO CHEAP!” If this trip is any indication, those days are long gone.

After half an hour of the traditional bureaucratic red tape, we three were on the road to The Natural Pool (be still my beating heart) when suddenly:

Remember what I said? Swear to God, this is supposed to be a road.

Even Toussaint was flummoxed.

So Toussaint & I  soldiered on à pied, much to the delight of our rabid followers

First objective: the Natural Pool, which, I’ll grudgingly  admit, more than lived up to its billing.

And yes, I did go in this time . I was going to get Toussaint to snap a photo of me mooning à la Fred Freemantle, but he’d just told me about his Catholic upbringing and I thought even the idea might be a trifle too traumatic.

The remainder of the hike was a combination of: 

some fairly spectacular scenery

Cascade des Nymphs: this one was a bit of a Devil’s Toenail (see *Appendix if necessary). Supposedly it was MUCH nicer before the town diverted most of the river to supply drinking water. Oh, Africa!

interesting sidelights

The Afterlife

The tradition of the Bara tribe here is to temporarily inter the body - usually in an accessible cave, wait until just the bones remain (but not too long - don’t want them disintegrating), then dig everything up, perform all the rituals & sacrifices to appease The Ancestors, and wrap & rebury what’s left in a more permanent spot (see collection of stones on right side of giant rock). Done & done.

But wait! Recently there’s been an epidemic of “bone snatching.” Hence this discarded coffin. Nothing’s been proven yet, but the Chinese are the prime suspects, owing to their well-known fascination with using strange objects for medicinal purposes. Whatever. People here are really pissed about the whole thing.

your obligatory wildlife

Never mind the colour. Look at the size of these things. According to Toussaint, when they emerge from the chrysalis, they’re about the size of a small plane.

No lie - there’s a walking stick insect in this photo. I didn’t believe it either until it moved.

Chameleon. Duh!

Surprise! No kidding. These things are cute as hell.

So now I’m officially done with parks, guides and all the bullshit that goes along with them. I really wouldn’t mind it as much (maybe) if I thought the fruits of this kind of extortion were at least going back into the parks or, better yet, the roads leading to them. But without exception, or any prompting from me, the guides and workers all bitch & moan about how most of it is lining some fat cat’s pocket. Africa - whaddaya gonna do?

*Appendix (probably unnecessary): Devil’s Toenail refers to any and all ludicrously overhyped and invariably extremely disappointing tourist attraction. The phrase originated in England in 1995, as we drove past literally endless signs touting “Devil’s Toenail - 10 miles” etc. When we finally arrived (as if we weren’t going to stop) the attraction was a stone about the size of a bowling ball with no discernible markings whatsoever. Hence…