This Faza "thinks too much"!

---

---

“Ou est la lemur, monsieur?”

“First we view the plants as they do not move”, Laurie, with his good honest bloke’s name, tells us in a thick Malagasy accent. This local guide has lived in Ranomafana all his life, grown up in the bush and a lemur whisperer of sorts like his side kick Tahi

Starting out yet again at the fresh hour of 6am, leaving by 7am, we were taken 10km up the hill to the reserve entrance. Here, a massive female pray mantis posed on a bright leaf, no doubt about to devour her male mate in gratitude for his role. The scenery was dense rainforest, and the humidity was as thick as Laurie’s accent

First came the plants, the diabetes cure, the geckos and the constant calls in the forest of the much revered unspotted lemurs. After some bush bashing down steep dry loamy banks, we spotted one of our 4 species of lemur for this visit; red bellied, red chested, grey, and bamboo, all very cute but keeping their distance.

They remained elusive and we trudged on slightly forlorn until we got about 2 hours into this trail when we chanced upon one swinging and obviously curious lemur. This starlet loved to be photographed and while about 20 of us stood watching, they casually chomped away at a fibrous bamboo branch. This was 10:30am after all, almost time for morning cappuccino. The Malagasy coffee is actually good!

By now, lemur nightfall fell at 11am and it was time to head back to the bus in the sultry rainforest heat. A harrier hawk, rarely sighted, made a guest appearance at the end of our tour and it’s size magnificent when in full flight

Tuki, the young 22 year old porter with the panama hat, and Tsoa, the older driver, then mustered us into our bus and we sped off in search of Ambalavao, our next spot for the night.

But danger lurked again and the shoddy tyre that was fixed the night before ran flat, again. Tuki and Tsoa in the midday heat worked their deft tyre repair magic whilst we took up a sunny picnic spot, complete with roadside thatched roof. “Brush” taxis ran past, filled to the brim with 12 to 15 occupants in a Toyota minivan, probably on their way 1000km to the top of Madagascar to the local Zebu market.

Using the bush toilet in a swampy area of scrappy bush, another on the tour spotted a large crocodile lurking, that then jumped up and in a fit of natural magnificence ate a bird sitting on the surface. It felt like that scene in Crocodile Dundee! I was lucky.

Tyre fixed and an hour lost, we passed through the large town of Fianarantsoa. The bank was our first stop and being stood outside, we joined the throngs of city dwellers catching some shade and socialising, sat on the concrete steps. Passing into the mini market for water, masquerading as a nightclub with it’s loud dance music, we slowly wound up the valley to gain a broad view of the Ambalavao valley below.

Curious onlookers, helmet-free cyclists whom had climbed 7-8km uphill, more baskets balanced on heads and locals toiling the fields in the last of the daylight filled the scene.

Then we arrived at the first and only Madagascar winery, bottling 130,000 bottle of plonk per year.

It was wine-o’clock!

Quite surprised at the presence of this thing, we had a brief if tasty taste sensation with Madame with the colourful hat. Verging on the side of vinegar for the white grape, the red was slightly better. Then came a schnapps and finally a sherry/ port concoction. Basically the more sugar they had in it the better it tasted and before long, thousands of ariary’s were being exchanged and I held back, keen not to repeat the Santorini purchase. I recall a wine loving male friend saying “don’t bring that hideous wine back here again”. Wine snobs, all their taste is in their mouth.

After one workshop stop too many, we hit the aromatic hotel in Ambalavao for the evening. Fragrant gardens and a delicious vege rich dinner topped off another filled day. Life made better after a shower, food and some deep philosophical conversation from our table about the differences between Africa and our comfortable Western lives, I retired to my frog filled abode.

Then….

Shriek!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I employed the services of the frog whisperer, one already being squashed and in the sink washing my smalls, one down the loo, and one out the window. Following the screams, he came with a smile of ‘what, you are scared of this?’ . Suffice to say, he failed to eradicate them all and I shared my mossie netted bed with an extra frog friend that evening.

The day of our camping tour was just delicious, with a sleep in until 7am and once packed and out the door, we trundled into 3 4WD’s, with small day packs and water. The Zebu market was our first stop and watching the trading between the shepherded ones and the buyers fascinating. Kids gathered around us begging for photos, and luckily not hands held out. I failed to make a purchase, and at $500 a pop that would compromise my return to NZ with raw meat in tow.

Zebu, in high numbers, magnifies your social standing if you are male, and has some serious street cred with the ladies. A Zebu owner can have 7 to 8 times the number of Zebu as he does partners, being the culture of the local tribesman and culture. Polygamy is common and a traditional male may have up to 8 wives, and as Tahina jokes, 8 problems!

A bone shaking trip to the start of our trek ensued, me grabbing a seat in a land rover circa 1980 with memories of our Kaitaia version. We thought we had done pot holes, well think again!

47km in 3 hours, and we arrived with a busted cambelt on our land rover at the Angositra park entrance. Milling around with the locals, we decided to cram 12 into 2 4WDs. Once adequately sandwiched between rear window, luggage, and passengers to my right and front in such personal space akin to the can of sardines we were about to eat, we bobbed up the hill to our lunch stop. Behind us athletes in training (aka porters!) ran at lightning speed, barefoot. Who needs running shoes!

A Malagasy Sherpa Tenzing and his all man army whipped up lunch and before long we hit the downhill slope to our 1 hour uphill slog. Steady climbing, Freddy, Noel, John and I made the top under an hour and the waterfall bathe 30 minutes later. Bathing after a sweaty climb was such joy, and I made like a Malagasy by rinsing my quick-drys and hanging them on the branches. I have created a positive impression I was told but am not sticking around for an arranged marriage!

First night camping was an introduction to Malagasy rural tribal life. The lightening like speed of our porters became lightening like dance moves around the camp fire. “Come and enjoy the animation”, Tahina said to us all. Sounds curious. However, the welcome rum and juice gave way to feet stomping, hand clapping, fist pumping, booty shaking cat calling wolf whistling dancing, with that old tour chestnut, ‘get the white ‘Faza’ up moving reigning in again. The dancing and singing went on and on as we devoured a delicious Zebu kebab.

“So where’s the nightclub”, says the Irishman, teller of ghost stories and not at all to be believed. “You can stay out there with the porters until 3:30am tomorrow” we said, about when we rise, and right when those celebratory lads are dragging their coordinated dancing feet home to the tent

4:30am arrived far too early but with dawn soon after a hot coffee, toast and fruit got us moving uphill towards Peak Boby by 5:30am. The sun rose spectacularly over the expansive 31,000 hectare national park of Angositra and likewise as on the day before, the 3 of us and Freddy made it to the first saddle within an hour. Trudging on upwards, we split and guide John Lui accompanied me with his broken English to the summit where we arrived by 7:30am.

At 2858 this was the 2^nd highest in Madagascar and granite rock to the bone. Flag mounted, we claimed the spot to ourselves and in steady mura mura (slowly) fashion descended back over the same route. All the while, John Lui pointed out several new plants and like a good Exodus guide, Tahina documented them no doubt for future study.

An early lunch and short bathing by the river was followed by a 14km gradual ascent to our next camp. Midday heat got to us all, the pace dropped, and we wondered if the Malagasy measurement system was at least a third of ours. As in “just ten minutes of uphill” work meaning 30. One member of our group suggested they buy the guides a spirit level as Malagasy flat often meant a steep up!

But relief was in sight. Passed by sherpas in jandals or plain bare feet carrying a yoke of 20kg of goods, we stumbled down an hour of steep steps, admired the changing vegetation from granite to palm trees sitting in a high altitude forest and arrived dusty and wobbly at our campsite. Beside a small brook, with my icky photo wound from a group shot earlier that day, I made a beeline for the water, a little soap in hands, and cleansed, us all feeling better for it.

Then there was more rabble rousing, with the song and music fiesta from the Sherpa brigade, some very strong almost nauseating rum, and a meal of potatoes and chicken rendering me comatose for my first full 9 hours of full sleep in a long time. Exhaustion is underrated!

Dawn on the next day was a magnificent sunrise over the range over which we had trudged 20km the day before. Taking on the basic breakfast of bread and water while being stared at by curious Sherpas, it was a weak 8km walk in comparison to the previous day to campsite number 3. The children of the area accosted us with up a mobile stall of seed necklaces, which coincidentally appeared at every subsequent turn in the road, dashing across dried rice paddies. Such was their canny enterprise!

Heat stroke hit us after we bid farewell the cheery Sherpas and guides and it was an afternoon of sitting under the only shade ruminating on many topics, resting and spending a good half an hour scrubbing off the dirt from the past 3 days. I had begun to smell like a Malagasy Sherpa and no amount of deodorant would fix it.

The shower was an experience to savour. The view was spectacular across the valley, open air, and in no time I was rinsed and smelling sweet again. Going commando could well have saved a bit if washing!

Roped with little persuasion into several physiotherapy assessments at my own promotion, for the odd downhill induced leg problems, followed by a short nap later, and it was rum time.

Swearing off it after the nausea two nights before, I succumbed with little persuasion, and having shared a good laugh over dinner had the second full night sleep despite lodging under canvas adjacent to another singsong party going full throttle. The hedgehogs stayed at bay and the rum indeed acted as good night medicine.

Light the next day at 5am, the 6am ‘good morning‘ wakeup call came, responding with a karanga of ‘haere Mae’ for our attentive guide Tahina. We were up and off by 7am wandering down from Tsurasoa lodge past the local water well, pigs and the highly valued zebu tamed by barely ten year old shepherds. Crammed less sardine like into three 4WDs again, we travelled to Anja reserve where we were taken by Victor the local guide on a tiki tour.

As if all blessings came at once, we watched for several minutes as a baby lemur was born and marvelled at not only the lack of obvious distress mum was in but the ability of baby to cling her claws to the fur or tree trunk, as she was disturbed by the swinging males of the clan and windy weather. Victor and his Michael Jackson looks then headed off into the wilderness whilst we were reunited with Tuki, our reliable driver come puncture repairman, and with our packs! Oh scrubbing brush and nail cleaner how have missed you.

We checked into our lodge, the finest digs in Isalo, crossing police road spikes on the outskirts of town and with advice to stay put and not wander, potentially at our peril. The lodge had a power blackout every night at 11pm we were warned, and a small leaf ridden pool was a welcome feature, the sunset as divine as those past. Dinner of zebu, zebu or zebu followed at the local restaurant. It was a greasy mess of fat and bone this time, and with upset tummy I turned food away with as much surprise as there being temperamental wifi connection.

Canyon walk day rose beautifully, and after a pot holed 17km ride we made it to the Ranohira trail head. It was a gorgeous scene of sedimentary rock, entering a micro climate of rainforest and ascending across the cliff edge to the plateau at over 1000 metres altitude. The steady ascent took several hours and was broken at various points by ring tailed lemurs and their clans, ending at a watering hole deep in the base of the canyon. Juliana, Tahina and I embraced the water, a refreshing dip at 13-14C, and I made like a Malagasy by rinsing my smalls. Ah, the familiar sight on these treks of underwear hanging from tents and packs, how bonding.

Electing to stay at campsite #1 due to safety issues (armed guards were previously enlisted due to camp raids), like clockwork our bodies rose with the sun at 5am urging breakfast along so we could make tracks again. A steep ascent up the cliffs above our campsite levelled off to Namaza outlook, interrupted by interesting mini baobab trees, an ancient version of a pine and lemur families attempting to guide us. Cave dwelling with kangaroo type hind legs, they roam about the sandstone outcrops and hang in the trees practicing their scales by screeching in peculiar fashion!

A meander along the cliffs, passing family tombs, exhumation sites, and with crows and kites whirling about the wind eddies, resulted in our eventual pre-lunch stop, a rock pool in a small canyon. Clothes were wrung out and shoulders pummelled with falling water, all before trudging back up the sandstone cliffs to a meal of zebu rissoles and the ever present rice whipped up by the porters.

Broken by some persuasive and profound philosophical chatter with Tahina, I made it back to camp with the faster walkers and onwards to the blue and black pools. A hard core 5 of us headed 1km up steep steps to this oasis, where serenity and coolness broke the heat of a sultry day. With no washing water back at camp, we were laughing all the way to our tents in bathed bliss.

The final night was a musical feast, banking on the dancing foreigner, some talent in drumming from our porter Tuki, and consuming plastic recycled water bottles of Malagasy moonshine. There were a few sore heads when rising at 5am the next day and it wasn’t mine!



Leaving Ranohira was temporarily curtailed with a road block, deep road rivets often filled with water and police checks for what seemed to be for the hell of it. Passing through Ismath, a town of mixed race (Chinese and Pakistani mainly), thatch huts and basic shop frontages offered gem services whereby locals panning in the river could cash in their product if they were lucky. Sapphire is the main mineral in these parts but sadly customs and morals have deteriorated the fabric of an altered Malagasy society according to Tahina’s explanations. The French colonists are not revered for their positive influences!



5 hours of solid driving over pot holed route 7, the main highway, passing through zones declared as more than a little corrupt and unsafe, brought us to Tulear. The town occupies land on the south western corner of this country, against the windy Mozambique straits. This is where local tribespeople live on a backdrop of sand, scrubby mangroves that have been stripped from the region and fairly inhospitable growing conditions for gardening or harvesting food. Life revolves around the ocean and a simple subsistence existence at that, unless you are a wealthy Frenchman opening a resort in this remote part of the world.



We deviated to the Baobab sanctuary en route to the resort, after taking lunch in a French restaurant in Tulear sitting in sultry tropical heat. Making the mistake of answering ‘non merci’ to the persistent woodware and necklace sellers, barely out of nappies, meant a trail of lemmings that was hard to dismiss. Once rid of our young entrepreneurs, we lingered amongst the forest of balsawood, baobab, maringa, kapok, euphorbia laro/ stenocolada, giant elephant foot, golden euphorbia and compass trees, with our only lemur visitor being a small white footed fellow.



A brief period of getting ‘misplaced’ with Tahina and we escaped, driving on sunset along a sandy 40km of boggy road. The scenes of reams of rubbish and deep ruts eventually spelled trouble for our non 4WD bus. Determining it too risky for the driver and us, we got out and walked, feeling sticky and dirty from wading through sand in the baobab forest beforehand. Thanks to iTunes and the Exodus crew humour, it made a tough ride less so to Hotel du Plage.



Contingency day followed, and electing to do nothing resulted in a pre-breakfast wander to the village of Ifaty. ‘Faza, faza’ (white person) was called at every step in the deep sandy road, the remaining kinesiotape attached to my left thigh attracting some curiosity. A trail of ‘madame madame’, where 3 afro haired kids were attempting to engage my rusty French, then staying with me like the pied piper, all the way back to my beachfront shack 2 metres from high tide mark. I wondered when and where school happens being a weekday as it seemed being roped into selling hard mangos, tomatoes, taro and fried whatchamacallit was school itself.



An impromptu fishing expedition at the emptying shoreline of Ifaty beach, after swimming with my friends the speckled jellyfish, was next. The Exodus guys, Tahina, Tuki, Tsoa, and I roamed over the weedy bottom, the boys posing for photos in between doing the low tide twist for bivalves. The tally grew while we conspired the BBQ to be had later, ending at one kina, 3 metre long sea cucumbers, numerous horse mussels, a large poisonous starfish and crustaceans. No sign of my jelly fish friends and may it stay that way, even if it is the full moon again this evening, bringing the crazies out!



Leaving this oasis tomorrow, road conditions willing, takes us back to Tulear for a connecting flight to Tana. May it be that the stories I’ve heard of epic delays in flights and missed connections do not ring true as I will be one disappointed, if seriously enlightened thanks to Tahina’s constant spiritual chatter that “you think too much”, token Malagasy!

---