No phone? How about a conch shell and a mountain top

9/13/07
IMORONA, MADAGASCAR – Dear John, I’m writing by the flicker of candle light from a village called Imorona, where a group of farmers sell vanilla on the international market. When I arrived this morning, ass-chapped and sore from a jolting ride in the back of a pickup truck, I climbed a dirt staircase up a mountain to take a in the lay of the land. It is absolutely paradise here. A river snakes through the feet of mountains, leaving the lime-green patchwork of rice paddies in its path. The mountains are still covered, mostly, in dense forest. And the ocean is a kaleidoscope of blues. It is striking to me how untouched this place is, at least by outside influence. Last night, for example, word came to town that a tsunami had hit southeast Asia … and that the wave might be headed here. That news came from a concerned relative who drove here, several hours, on a motorcycle, just to deliver it. Once it arrived, a moderate panic set in. About 500 people, the mayor told me, assembled in the middle of the night on top of the mountain to assess the situation in sure safety from any rising water. The planning of that meeting is what’s particularly awesome. Did they call everyone on the telephone? Of course not, they don’t those. Did they interrupt the usual television programming? Nope, no electricity here. So an official climbed the mountain, high above the town, with a conch shell in hand. When he reached the peak, he blew hard into the foot of the shell: “OOOO-EEEEEE!!!!!” He let out a high-pitched call that all the town could hear. Everyone scampered up the mountain right away to see what was the matter.
In an interview today, the mayor imitated it for me. The shell is the “telephone Malagache,” he said. It’s so cool that places like this still exist. Love, John

"Answer me these questions three ..."

9/13/07
IMORONA, MADAGASCAR – Dear Dave –
Hours on bus: 14
Rivers to cross, without bridges: 6

[When you don’t have bridges, men with 50-foot bamboo poles push you across your truck across rivers on a shaky raft. The hollow poles pushing off the river bottom sound like plastic straws digging into slurpies. – SUTTER]

15 people, me, 14 hours, and the back of a Toyota

9/13/07
IMORONA, MADAGASCAR – Dear Ben, I got in to this small village this morning after riding for a total of 14 hours in the back of a pickup truck, on a sideways wooden bench, crammed next to 15 other people. It was crazy. We were so close together, our arms were thatched together like palm fronds on a mat. Our feet and legs were like tangled tree roots. All the while, the truck is jerking back and forth with the force of an old wooden rollercoaster. We were driving so slow. Bicycles were seriously passing us because the roads were so bad. They looked like this: (insert craggy line here). The back of the truck was covered with a metal cage and a green tarp, to protect us from the rain. That was nice, but it also made the space fill up with exhaust as the truck heaved its way through muddy red ruts as deep as my thighs. It was worth it though, for one reason – the music. Just as I would think I was going to puke on/kill everyone around me, my fellow passengers would start singing. I couldn’t understand a word, but the soulful harmonies lifted me right off of that bruising seat and put me somewhere wonderful, a place where I could see the magnificent beaches and misty mountains on our path. A place where the ocean breeze snuffed out the tail pipe fumes. The world is terribly unfair sometimes, and we should do everything we can to change that, but the power people have to life themselves out of shitty situations, if only in mind, is truly amazing. Love, John

Malagasy love them some pro wrestling ...

MAROANTSETRA, MADAGASCAR – Dear John, It’s not very PC to say this, but Madagascar makes me totally feel bi-polar sometimes. Earlier this afternoon, I was so discouraged and lonely – it felt like none of my best-laid plans were coming through. Then I went for a walk at twilight (random sidenote: the French call that “la nuit americainne”) and I couldn’t stop smiling. The people here in Maroantsetra are beautiful, friendly and love WWE wrestling. Random combo, I know. Keep reading.
My walk took me not far from my bungalow, just down a dirt road to the local market, which I can still hear buzzing with chatter and motorcycle engines. When I got to the market, I made eye contact with a big woman who was sitting on the ground in front of rows of dead fish (also on the ground). She was frowning. I said “Hello” in Malagasy, “Hope your day is good.” Her eyes lit up – so fast. Then she flashed an enormous, toothy smile and greeted me in return, nodding her head in thanks. From that simple instand on, I was back on a high. I bought a bundle of bananas (10 cents), three blocks of fresh bread (30 cents) and two bottles of water ($1.50) … all for tomorrow’s car trip, assuming I get to go.
On the walk back, I took in the smells of raw fish, charcoal smoke and earthy rice dust with joy. When I got back here to the bungalow at Hotel Ebene, the owner was watching a WWE wrestling DVD from 2005. In the program, a guy with a flattop, wearing jean shorts and bulging bare chest showing, beat a older dude in a skimpy speedo. We all muttered “oohs” and “uhhs” together as they traded body slams on the tiny TV. I was the only one who laughed at flattop man when he paused the match to pump air into the tongues of his Reebok Pump shoes. I hated watching WWE in the US, but here it was hilarious and wonderful, because it was something we all could understand. Love, John

Zen and the art of watching chameleons

SAMBAVA, MADAGASCAR – Dear John, Went running on the beach in Sambava to clear my head. Scheduling woes, and you know me, planning stuff is not my cup of tea. I wanted to get out to this awesome national park because I’m stuck in this town until Sunday, but I don’t have time. Ah well.
On the run, I saw a man and pregnant woman herding cattle (zebu). The hoof-prints made the running interesting, and I I was laughing out loud by myself about the whole scene. I ran so much that I got blisters and cuts all over the bottoms of my feet – woops. The beach is a little more like glass shards than powder. In reality, I’ve gotten a lot accomplished on this trip to vanilla land. I’m just frustrated that I have to wait around for this one tour, and I’m kind of – OK, really – lonely here. I want my head to stop spinning. Good thing there are insanely beautiful ocean and mountain view are here to help me chill out a bit. Nature is about the only thing that’s keeping me sane here … oh, and I saw the COOLEST chameleon the other day, walking across the beach one slow, controlled step at a time, his eyes darting around in all directions before he’d put a new foot down in the sand. He made it to a mini-palm tree and rested in the shade (eyes still darting) while I watched the waves. Love, John

Vanilla trip begins

SAMBAVA, MADAGASCAR -- Dear Fam: I’m up in northeast Madagascar, the world’s best region for growing vanilla. When you walk down the streets in Sambava and Antalaha, the smell of vanilla drying in the tropical sun hits you with a force strong enough to stain your hair and clothes for the day. The smell isn’t everywhere, it just pops out of the windows of the concrete bunkers where workers sort dried beans with the speed and precision of Vegas card dealers. They put beans in various tubs and piles, corresponding to a number of categories: length, color, moisture, weight, texture and, above all, smell. The smell was one of the things that’s surprised me the most about vanilla production … because it’s grows. Opening a bottle of McCormick’s vanilla extract makes you think of cookies and ice cream and summer and such. Dried vanilla smells like raisins. Maybe caramel. And both are kind of alcoholic-moldy.
Once the vanilla is properly dried and sorted (that takes nine months) then it is exported for the most part, to you in the U.S. People here don’t use the stuff.
Wishing you love from a Chinese restaurant that smells like caramel raisins. JOHN

White guy hiking town to town in rural Madagascar

[9/16/07 IMORONA, Madagascar. Dear Christian, I was reminded of our biking trip in the Appalachian Mountains yesterday. I walked a few hours down dirt road through the jungle and rice fields to get to this town, Mananara, on Madagascar’s east coast. Let me assure you that a white dude hiking alone with a massive pack is way more shocking to onlookers in Madagascar than we were – in spandex – to Appalachian people in Virginia and North Carolina. Kids saw me coming first. Some rushed to tell their parents of my arrival. “White person! White person!” Some said it with excitement, others with fear, running back into a bamboo home with arms flailing overhead. One kid ran out to the road, pointed at me, then screamed at the top of his lungs and spun around in circles. Then pointed again. He was excited, like I was Oprah or something. Although I guess she would stand out less. I tried to always flash a smile, no matter how I was received in these villages. I offered up a few Malagasy greetings (“any news in your family?”) Usually more shrieks followed. People here are way more excitable than they are back home. Commonplace stuff causes quite a stir. The animals play along with the game, too. Every morning, the rainforest shrieks with delight when the sun starts coming up. I imagine the frogs, birds and chameleons as cartoons, yelling “Oh my God, the sun, the sun!! Hurry, hurry, wake up. It’s the sun! It’s back!!” Hopefully I can bring some of that enthusiasm back to the states with me. This was all going through my head while I trudged down the hot and muddy road, thinking in my head “Just keep walking, just keep walking.” Like Dorey, the inquisitive but confused fish on Finding Nemo. –SUTTER]

The 5 a.m. pollinator

[9/16/07 IMORONA, Madagascar. Dear Grandma, People here in northeast Madagascar are dedicated, gentle and quick. They have to be to succeed on some of the best vanilla plantations in the world. Six days a week, Séance wakes up at 5 a.m. to pollinate the orchid flowers on vanilla vines. The climb up the side of a steep and misty mountain. He walks for an hour – down a dirt road, down a cool stream and through a rice paddy – to get there. In Malagasy, the name of the mountain means “rising sound of moving water.” (Lots of names here are cool and literary). But no time to ponder that now, I’m worn our from following Séance all morning, and I think I’m going to take a nap. People here – just like in Oklahoma – are so proud and hard-working. Darting around the hills to pollinate flowers is just the first of Séance’s several jobs, and he lives in a bamboo hut that’s just barely bigger than a king-size mattress. I’m doing my best to learn from everyone here … Hope you’re doing well. Love, John]

Don't call me spelunker

[9/15/07 Dear John, Thanks for all of the messages from Austin City Limits (ACL). I’ve been thinking about you guys and I’m sure you’re having a blast. Drink a Texas Martini for me (holy Jesus, that sounds so awesome right now). I’ve been out of cell phone range in Imorona. I stayed with Tom and Faith, a married couple in the Peace Corp, who lived in Austin before coming here. They’re totally interesting people. They met in a “caving” club. Just don’t call it “spelunking.” I made that mistake. Tom quipped: “Spelunkers are people who, like, walk around in caves with sandwiches and flashlights. We’re, like, serious. We have equipment.” OK sure. Tom and Faith got engaged on a Friday and married on the following Monday. They say Austin is a “cavers” heaven. As you know, it’s pretty good for food, too, and Tom and Faith fed me some amazing food during my stay. Everything is rice here, but you can do some cool stuff with it. I think when I get home, I might join some clubs and learn to cook. Their domestic settledness is appealing, because they keep the adventure alive too. Love, John]

Vanilla beans are just strung-out raisins

[9/7/07 SAMBAVA, Madagascar. Dear Fam: I’m up in northeast Madagascar, the world’s best region for growing vanilla. When you walk down the streets of Sambava and Antalaha, the smell of vanilla drying in the tropical sun hits you with a force strong enough to stain your hair and clothes for the day. The smell isn’t everywhere, it just pops out of the windows of concrete bunkers where workers sort dried beans with the speed and precision of Vegas card dealers. They put beans in various tubs and piles that correspond to important categories for beans: length, color, moisture, weight, texture and – above all – smell. The smell was one of the things that surprised me most about vanilla production … because it’s gross. Opening a bottle of McCormick’s vanilla extract makes you think of cookies and ice cream and summers. Dried vanilla, to me, smells like raisins. Once the vanilla is properly dried and sorted (no easy feat, and one that takes nine months) then it is exported, mostly to the U.S. People don’t use the stuff here. … Wishing you love from a Chinese restaurant (where I’m writing this) that smells like raisins. –JOHN]

(image caption: negative image … beans are black and the tie is usually a palm frond)

M'Boutha Muppets in Madagascar

[8/19/07 Dear Joe, I went up to Tana’s (relatively) ritzy northern suburbs last night to see a percussion and reggae band called M’Boutha. The music was pretty good, and it is nice to realize that people here like something besides Shania Twain and Kelly Clarkson, but my favorite part was watching the main drummer, whose shaggy hair and tripped-out swaying reminded me of a cross between Janice and the French Chef from the Muppets. And, in the face, he looked like Jimmy Hendrix … and, in a very understated way, he was wearing a long-sleeve t-shirt. I love a good character. Sometimes, to cope with people I find annoying or don’t understand, I turn them into cartoons in my head. That way, they are entertaining – fun, original pieces of life – not irritating. But there was no need to caricature this drummer. Hair flopping in his face, cigarette dangling from his lower lip, eyes wandering aimlessly. He should really go solo. –John]

Malagasy Discotheque

[8/18/07 LE BUS, TANA – Dear Molly, Africa is a place of contrasts – of high highs and crushing lows. For Tana’s wealthy class (read: ex-pats), you find highs at Le Bus, an all-night discotheque. You can be openly gay there, and no one blinks. That totally amazes me, since elsewhere, homosexuality is completely taboo. But it still makes me uncomfortable to think that this life of excess can exist so close beside dire poverty. But then again, what difference does that juxtaposition make really? In the West, we live to excess all the time. It’s just easier for many people, because they never have to, or don’t want to, see how the other side lives. Here, unless you want to sit inside your razor-wire compound all day and all night, no one has that luxury. – John]

History under cardboard boxes

[8/18/07 Dear Mom, Dad and Ben, There is not a lot of emphasis placed on cultural history here. So I was pleased to find a temporary one-room museum – pitched like a tent on the sidewalk -- that told the story of Madagascar’s kings and queens, before the French occupation.

The square building was painted to look like a castle, but its pitched roof was made of flattened cardboard boxes and the walls were planks of wood, painted on the outside to look like stone. Inside were pictures of royalty, dressed to look rather European, and with the lighting in their portraits displayed as such that they almost looked Caucasian. I wonder if that was intentional – if they lighter skin color has always been favorable, or a symbol of power here.

My favorite royal Malagasy is the one with the longest name (54 letters … no suggestions from spellcheck): Andrianampoinimerinandriantsimitoviaminandriampanjaka. My least favorite is Queen Ranavalona I, who made her subjects, accused of wrongdoing, eat a poisonous shrub to determine their guilt or innocence. She also flung people off a cliff behind her palace. Really nice lady. Her palace burned down in 1995 and they are rebuilding it now. Hopefully you won’t see supposed witches flying off the cliffs once the scaffolding is peeled away and the building is fully functional again. Love, John]

420 stairs to the Indian Ocean Games

[8/12/07 TANA Dear Jim and Pat, At the top of a 420-step staircase, Richard leaned on a rock rail, watching ant-sized men play rugby in a stadium below. Today is the first day of the “Jeux des Isles,” or Island Games, which is sort of a mini-Olympics for the countries in this region. The games last all week, and the city is all spiffed-up for the arrival of outsiders: colorful banners on all of the roads, homeless people conspicuously missing from the tunnels that go through the mountains around the city. On top of one mountain, I asked Richard, who is an IT guy at the local hospital, why he didn’t watch the match from inside the stadium. He said the tickets were far too expensive for him. We talked for a while: I learned that his favorite sport is basketball and he learned that I would be way too short to play basketball in the United States, and then I left him there. I went down all 420 stairs, watching people on their way up huff and puff and stop for breaks. When I got to the bottom, I found out that tickets to the event were only 1,000 Ariary, or 50-cents US. The idealistic part of me wanted to trudge back up the mountain to offer to buy Richard a seat. It probably would have made his day. But I didn’t. And now I’m back to that emotion that is all-too-familiar here: guilt. Next time I meet a Richard, I will offer to help out -- even if there are 420 stairs to climb. Good thing there are one MILLION staircases in the city. Love, John]

Radio disco !!! (when appropriate)

[8/10/07 TANA Dear John, My new radio, purchased at the grocery store, features indiscriminate flashing disco lights. The lights don’t care if you’re playing Justin Timberlake (it would have to be a cassette) or BBC Radio Afrique (as pictured above), they’re always up for a party. It’s great most of the time, but when things get too terribly ironic, like when the BBC is talking about kidnappings in Nigeria, you can respectfully turn the lights off … and then flip them back on for sports.
I expect it to be a great help for learning French. Now I just need a tutor or something. That will be my project for Monday. Love, John]

Traveler's D, brought to you by personification

[8/9/07 TANA Dear John, There are tenacious little elves in my gut, pinching at my intestines with pliers. They work on semi-regular intervals. For a while, they had me running upstairs to the toilet every 30 minutes. Now it’s more like every hour or so. Such a predicament is unavoidable, I suppose, when you’re traveling in a place where you must boil the water to drink it. If that is the case, then I am truly lucky, since the twisting and pinching of my stomach started just when I got off the plane here in Tana this morning. Detail that makes me slightly unlucky: no TP in the restroom at the airport. But it was a quick taxi ride, thank the Lord (and the elves).]

Haiku 2 (Jack Kerouac is so ashamed)

[8/7/07 → A day in haiku … well, close.

Toyota tires slip through muddy turns;
dusty tape deck
never skips a beat.

$300 million from the World Bank
to grow wretched troll trees
-- in symmetrical villages.

Boat full of hangovers
putts across a turquoise paradise.

(OK, so maybe I’m not much of a poet … sorry the phone call got cut short this morning … I’ll call soon … and I’m sure that call will happen way b4 you get this.) Love, John]

Biodiversity scares me sometimes ...

No sleep

[8/7/07 NOSY KOMBA --- Dear Monies/Mock, I tried everything – falling asleep with my index fingers in my ears, smashing pillows on both sides of my face, breathing exercises to distract my mind – but when there is a bombastic Malagasy “sallegy” concert going on 100 feet from your thatched bungalow, there is really nothing you can do to sleep. I joined the party until about 1 a.m., but since my boat left early in the morning, I thought I would try to sleep at least a little. But Fandrana, the band, and its constant banging bass drum and asinine accordion riffs definitely won the slumber standoff, rattling my chest and making my ears scream high pitches until 6:23 a.m. (yes, I wrote it down). I think the band is kind of like the American or Euro version of techno, or it fills the same role. The chords and patterns repeat over and over. They pick up and drop off, but never go away, so you can dance until dawn. The dance that goes with sallegy appears to be inspired by the America’s own ass-shaking wonder, Beyonce. Endless booty shaking. Can’t get enough. For much of the night, the part where I wasn’t on the verge of lunacy, I wondered what the finale would be. Fade out? Big bang? Screams? What time? (not dawn, please God, not dawn). I never would have guessed a rapid-fire accordion solo of “Frere Jacques,” but that is what is so great about Madagascar. You never know what to expect. Hope you guys are doing well. Tell Hunter hello. – SUTTER]

No lemurs

[8/6/07 NOSY KOMBA (LEMUR flipping ISLAND) --- Dear Molly, I am the only person in the world who can go to a place called “lemur island,” hike around for 6 hours, spend the night, and not see one damn endangered primate. Apparently the lemurs know that all the banana-toting tourists show up between 9 a.m. and noon. At noon, they vanish into an underground lemur lair, not to emerge until the next morning, unless bananas are spotted. And while they’re hiding out, I’m traipsing all around the island with my eyes pointed up to the trees, hoping to see one, and tripping because I’m not looking at the path. I’m sure they watched on their digital surveillance system and laughed their lemur asses off. – John]