My name's John and I'm a snorer
October 2nd 2009 A four hour drive down a dusty and uneven road takes us to a river crossing that's five minutes from our camp. We squeeze nine into the car via the simple expedient of the guide sitting astride the gearstrick.
The camp is the focal point of every white person I've seen since leaving Antsirabe, plus a few more. We have an entire afternoon to ourselves, during which I foolishly allow myself to
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