When we had gotten to the end of the protected land, we knew it. Desolation was all we saw; chopped, brown, and dead. Our guide told us that this was a banana plantation, and that banana trees can only yield one batch of bananas. After their allotted banana crop, the trees are chopped down, and new trees grow from their roots. So, it wasn’t really as bad as it looked – they were just in between growing spurts. Still, knowing this had all once been as gorgeous, dense, lush, and perfect as what we had just hiked through gave us pause. We were just glad that some of it had been preserved while there was still some to save.
Traveler palm detail.
Respite from the clear-cutting.
Rain forest wonders.
Verdant.
Bananas!
We entered another densely forested patch of land and proceeded to hike down a VERY steep path. Down and down and down it went, and my knees felt as if they were going to fall off my body.
We finally reached a clearing, where more banana trees were growing. What looked like pea plants had also been planted among the banana trees, making the most of the land.
We came to the river, and on the other side was a huge rock formation speckled with trees. There were several small waterfalls cascading down the rocks into a beautiful pool at the bottom. We were told that the rainy season, which was fast approaching, would turn this into a major waterfall. I asked the guide if we could go to the pool, and he said, “No – why would you want to?” I really didn’t know what to say to that. I guess stuff like this must seem kind of normal to him, but dang…
Mostly dry waterfall, but the rainy season's just around the bend.
Ferns 'n Flowers.
Waterfall.
Pool.
After the entire group had managed to descend to our location, we rested for a spell, posing for pictures in front of the waterfalls trying to avoid direct contact with sunlight. Then, we were off again.
We stampeded through medium-sized forest, and then I looked over and there was a hut where some children were playing. A woman poked her head out. We were hiking through these people’s yard! I felt a little tacky about it, but they didn’t really seem too concerned, so on we went, through their rice paddies. Lots of rivulets were trickling water through a system that fed water to the various paddies, and we stepped carefully in order to keep from toppling over onto the weak-looking plants.
We passed through several types of plantations – coffee, pineapple, casaba – until we finally reached the edge of town. “This is the President’s house when he visits the pools,” the guide said, pointing. It was nothing spectacular – it looked like a regular ranch-style house you’d find anywhere. The only thing that made it stick out was the bizarre air conditioning units that were attached. I had never seen anything like them – they were window units, but looked as if they were from 1960. They were enormous.
We walked by the President’s home and an untended garden and then saw the hot pool. It was just a plain swimming pool by appearance, but the water came from a hot spring. Two tourists bobbed lazily.
Rice paddy in the making.
Rain forest and river.
Some lady's backyard that we totally walked through.
Ranomafana glamour.
Coffee beans.
A rickety bridge on the other side of the hot pool.
The rain forest in the misty twilight.
After our intense hike that had taken us through the park and beyond, we were given the opportunity to dip into the hot pool, which sounded like an absolute nightmare to me. Nothing spells certain doom more intensely than bobbing in an 80 degree pool with a gaggle of tourists after rooting through a muggy, swampy rain forest. Am I right?
A few stayed, but the rest of us went back to the hotel and sipped Coca-cola on the front porch while talking about how amazing the rain forest had been. Most of us were excited about the ‘night hike,’ but a few people had decided that they had seen enough of that rain forest – it would be the same at night, only darker.
Me, I was going to get the most for my money, so I got my flashlight, my umbrella and my emergency poncho and met the rest of the group down by the bus, raring to go see some mouse lemurs, fossas and Aye-ayes.
Well, it WAS the same only darker. And wetter. And very, very crowded. They led us up to Belle Vue, where it turns out they had basically partially tamed one mouse lemur and one fossa to turn up at certain times and in specific alcoves of the forest. Making their guest appearances, the creatures would get tossed some pellets of cat food. They’d pose and prance and act fancy for the cameras and then slink back into the wild.
We were all crammed into a very thin path where these animals were peeking out of the trees, and a group of French tourists, all wearing matching white rain slickers with a hideous ‘Adventure Tours’ logo on the back, entered our zone. I was horrified by the tackiness. Jill, a woman in the group, exclaimed that she didn’t care what happened, she would never, EVER wear a matching poncho with a travel group – and I agree with her. They all looked like – what’s the polite word? – assholes.
And they acted like it, too. There were probably twelve of them, and they would stampede from one viewing station to the next, shoving anyone who wasn’t wearing one of their identifying ponchos out of the way – they and only they were entitled to see these nocturnal creatures, damn it!
I got sick of the whole thing. Yes, I saw one – ONE – mouse lemur and some grubby little grey thing that was supposed to be a fossa, but I would much rather have waited back at the hotel with the ladies who, when we returned from our Trek Into Damnation, were playing a very spirited game of cards on the porch.
We all had a delicious dinner – I had spaghetti and tomato sauce – and then retired. We were going to be off the next morning – early, of course – so we could get to Ambalvao – hub of Malagasy paper making – in time to see its wonders.
Although we had been denied access to Andasibe-Mantadia National Park the afternoon before, we were not disheartened – coming back in the morning meant we’d get to witness something very special.
We got up especially early in order to be there for the Indris’ daily calls – a ritual that lasts only four to ten minutes, and only happens once a day. We were greeted by our guides from the night walk the evening before, who were going to take us through the rain forest. Before we started, one of the guides told us the depressing saga of the Andasibe-Mantadia Rain Forest – it had at one time stretched in one massive forest, but slash and burn agriculture had killed huge patches of the forest, leaving it intact only in small, unconnected clumps.
He went on to say that the major reason the forest reserve had been established was to protect what little population of the Indri-indri was left. The forest’s current state makes it difficult for the Indri population to grow, as their groups have been cut off from one another.
A peaceful rivulet.
I'm crossing you in style someday.
This rain forest was relatively flat and not as “rain foresty” as I would have imagined a rain forest being after watching and being entranced by films such as Raiders of the Lost Ark and Romancing the Stone. We were told, however, that Madagascar’s rainy season would be starting within about two weeks of the time I was there, so I am sure that it gets much more lush and green as time goes by.
Le maison des termites.
Fantsy-pants fungi.
After visiting with some of those adorable brown lemurs, we finally happened upon an Indri-Indri family. The Indri I focused most of my attention on was a mother who had a baby wrapped around her.
My friend the Indri.
The Indri is a vertical clinger and leaper and thus holds its body upright when traveling through trees or resting in branches. It has long, muscular legs which it uses to propel itself from trunk to trunk. Its large greenish eyes and black face are framed by round, fuzzy ears that some say give it the appearance of a teddy bear. The silky fur is mostly black with white patches along the limbs, neck, crown, and lower back. Different populations of the species show wide variations in color, with some northern populations consisting of mostly or entirely black individuals. The face is bare with pale black skin, and it is sometimes fringed with white fur.[3] Unlike any other lemur, the Indri has only a rudimentary tail.
Punim.
Up close with an Indri just before they all started their daily call, which they only do once a day - early in the morning - for four to ten minutes. They lay claim to their territory and look for potential dates this way.
We were standing there admiring these beautiful lemurs when something that sounded like an airhorn went off. First it was just one, then two, then the entire forest was being blasted by these noises – almost piercingly loud – coming from every direction at once.
This video shows what the Indri’s call sounds like – but imagine being in the forest and hearing these calls, one after another, stretching across who knows how much land – all at once. These calls can be heard up to five kilometers away. Being under the canopy while the Indri were calling to one another was one of the major highlights of this trip.
After the Indri-indri finished their calls, the forest went back to stillness. We moved on, finding more brown lemurs and a little coven of nocturnal lemurs that had snuggled in together for their morning nap before being disturbed by our tour guide for our benefit. They were gracious about the interruption, yawned for a few minutes while everyone took snapshots, and then went back to Slumbertown where they belonged.
One of them brown lemurs.
Random rain forest glamour.
Some nocturnal lemurs unhappily awakened by our passing through.
We grew a bit suspicious of things when our tour guide announced that he would “now go to the chameleon.” People in the group wondered aloud, “How does he know where the chameleon is? I bet he keeps those in a sack and just throws them in the trees when people aren’t looking.” It was a bit mysterious as he led us through the dense overgrowth to a chameleon that was NEON green and just hanging out in the middle of the forest in plain sight.
It turns out, however, that the park has “scouts” that roam the forest and then call the guides on cell phones (nothing like cellular technology in use in the middle of a rain forest) to tell them where the animals are. I suppose it’s good business – it keeps the tourists from whining that they didn’t see anything, and probably ensures that they’ll burble to their friends how wonderful Madagascar is, prompting more tourism. I was sold; I’d go back there in a minute.
Not doing such a good job blending in, this chameleon must have thought it was in an early-80s Madonna video.
After the chameleon shenanigans, our tour of the rain forest wound to a close. We scuttled back to our bus and began the long, plodding journey to Antsirabe, where we had been promised to see things like an “aluminum factory” and an “embroidery factory.”
Along the way, we stopped for lunch at a well-known ‘pizzeria.’ The other vegetarian in the group and I were especially excited about this, because the pizza in Antananarivo had been awesome and we were already sick of ‘legumes sautees et riz nature’ – the only things on any menu anywhere that didn’t have “lipide d’animaux” or “infusion de beouf” in their description. We were all ready to order our pizzas when we were told “we’re out of pizza.”
Now, how does a pizzeria run out of pizza? Dough is basically just glue… it’s not that hard to make. But, these are things we came to terms with in Madagascar – food is rationed, basically, and when they run out, they run out. So I had ‘legumes sautees et riz nature.’ Divine.
I did, however, seeing as it was vacation and all, break a vow I had made AGES ago – I consumed a glass of actual, genuine Coca-cola. Not Diet, or “Coke Light” as it’s called in Africa – but actual Coke. And it was the best shit I think I’ve ever consumed in my life. My fellow travelers were shocked and awed and worried for my safety as I guzzled this elixir down with abandon, slapped my glass down on the table, and demanded more.
Before we got to Antsirabe, we made a stop to look at the rice paddies. It was dusk and farmers were herding cattle and ducks back to their paddocks or wherever these animals are stored at night.
As we were standing there stretching our legs, we noticed a large group of children careening toward us. Malagasy kids LOVE LOVE LOVE tourists. And more than that, they love having their pictures taken. They don’t ever get to see things like digital cameras and it was really awesome to watch these kids burst into excited laughter at seeing their own images on the tiny cameras’ screens. They were delightful and charming until their mothers came around and uttered the word, “cadeau” (gift), basically telling their children to start begging.
Our tour guide had warned us before we departed that children and begging go hand in hand in Madagascar and that it was fine to give them things like pens and pencils, because they actually needed them – but to steer clear of candy (dental hygiene is negligible in Madagascar) and money (as it would teach them to be lazy). I had brought with me a HUGE bag of pens and pencils, but had them in my luggage because I hadn’t anticipated a stop where children would be involved.
The kids were happy enough seeing their pictures, and they loved posing with and for us in goofy positions. They danced and sang and spoke to us in French before we boarded the bus. They all ran after us as if they had known us forever and were going to miss us terribly.
Children at work in the fields.
Herding cattle.
Herding ducks.
Children getting their pictures snapped.
When we reached Antsirabe, we noticed that it was different. The streets were clean and orderly – there were actually street lights – and it had a very European feel to it. There weren’t any mud huts to be seen, no open fires, and the homes all appeared to be middle class (this view of the city would change in the morning, but we were in the town center at the moment).
As soon as we stepped out of the bus we were swarmed by women selling gemstones and embroidered table cloths. Men who drove rickshaws (or pousse-pousses, as they’re called there) pleaded with us to take rides with them.
We were given our room keys and told to meet back in the lobby of the hotel in about an hour.
Our hotel in Antsirabe.
This nonsense is just sort of strewn around Madagascar... new agers would crap their pants.
We went to a very popular restaurant that was a good walk away from the hotel and was clearly populated by foreign tourists. A band was playing, singing beautiful songs in Malagasy, and we listened to them for hours as we got to know each other better.
When we left the restaurant, it was around 10 o’clock at night. Rickshaw drivers were lined up, ready to scamper off with drunk patrons, but we decided to walk. Along the way, I saw what looked like a big red balloon up against a wall.
When I leaned in for a closer look, I realized that it was a child, about 3 years old, huddled under a red shirt and leaning up against the wall, trying to sleep. It is an image that will be burned into my memory for the rest of my life, and probably one of the most urgent and desperate signs I’ve ever personally seen as to how unbalanced and unfair the world actually is. I felt like crying when I saw him. I wanted to scoop him up and take him someplace safe. I wanted him to know what happy childhood feels like.
As we walked down the street, children ran after us – from ages five to ten – all begging for money, some so aggressive that we had to pull them off of us. “Professional beggars,” we were told.
Professional beggars or not, they were children, and I wished there were something I could do right there and then to give them what they needed.
Madagasikara 