A Road to Emmaeus

Whole Foods. Driving. Yoga. Church. These are some of the things that I have missed while away in Madagascar. Now, after eight months in the field, I am back into my normal rhythm of privileged, millennial life in northern Virginia. I left Tana two days before Christmas at the end of a mad scramble to close out our project. So I have been back in the States for almost six weeks already. More than anything else, I am struck with how easy life is here, surrounded by modern technology, reliable public services, and strong social support networks. I am relieved to have my old life back, and though I have no regrets about my time abroad, it is no exaggeration to say that it was one of the more difficult challenges I have faced in my life.

Now I find myself reflecting on my stay on that island nation that few westerners have ever seen. In a later post I will provide a general reflection of the nation of Madagascar, but I’ll start with an account of my trip to Andasibe which provided most of the photos that I shared in earlier posts.

In mid-October my sister Sara flew in from the States and we spent a week exploring the rainforests of Andasibe and the beach at Vatomandry. We took in sights that were new to both of us: cloudy hillsides of rain-drenched forest, villages perched above sweeping vistas of rice fields and mountains, fishing pirogues basking underneath an indigo sky, and of course the country’s famed flora and fauna. Sara and I are both fascinated by animals and the natural treasures of Madagascar produced wonders to behold. As a professional artist who frequently depicts animals in her work, I knew that for Sara this island paradise would be a source of creative inspiration just as I also hoped it would be for my songwriting. I carefully planned every day of our itinerary, intent on maximizing the experience for both of us.

The trip from Tana to Andasibe took about three hours and we passed through hilly country of mostly pine and eucalyptus forest. Due to the need for firewood, much of Madagascar has been deforested and then replanted with non-native tree species. Pine and eucalyptus are fast-growing and are therefore preferred as a fuel source. Our driver, Harrison, explained that other sources of fuel are prohibitively expensive, so the population outside of urban areas relies on firewood. Harrison, an amiable Malagasy man in his mid to late 40s, was superb as he provided a non-stop commentary on life in Madagascar during our journey. He always greeted us with a smile and a warm enthusiasm that made our trip even more enjoyable. We spoke in a mix of French and English. Sara speaks conversational French, so she used this as an opportunity to refresh her skills.

As we got closer and closer to Andasibe, the vegetation noticeably changed with native tropical forest beginning to appear. The village of Andasibe itself is a relatively small town that was once served by a now defunct railway station. The surrounding forest is largely protected in a series of national parks, some publicly managed while others run by private organizations. The guides are all locally-hired; this ensures that guide fees are invested within the community so that the town benefits from the influx of tourists. Overall, were never felt crowded out by other tourists. We always had a guide to ourselves; there are a large number of them and all speak at least some English. Most days we did one or two hikes, and we also did two visites nocturnes in the hopes of spotting some nighttime fauna.

Our main goal, of course, was to see the famed lemurs. The first lemur we encountered was the indri, one of the most endangered lemurs and the primary attraction of the Andasibe region. Our guide led us deep into the forest where we negotiated our way down a steep ridge with no discernable trail. As we wove our way gingerly between the tree trunks, we soon stumbled upon a family of four of five indris perched above us in the branches, lounging around and munching on leaves. One of the guides selected a handful of reddish leaves and waved them overhead for a good fifteen minutes. I thought it was a futile exercise as the indris didn’t seem tempted at all, but eventually one of them climbed down from the canopy and plucked the treat from the guide’s hand. We were within inches of the creature, who showed no fear of us. The indri is almost cartoonish looking, a friend later described them as “real life muppets” which I think is a suitable comparison. They have large, inquisitive eyes and furry ears, and their hands resemble those of a human: perfectly adapted for the grasping motion needed for an arboreal lifestyle.

More than their appearance, though, the indri are known for their haunting cry which reverberates deep into the forest. Even from our hotel we could hear them; siren-like, almost anguished, and an apt soundtrack for the tragedy that is the rapid disappearance of Madagascar’s rain forests. One night I started work on a ukulele song with exactly this theme, using the indri to focus on a message of environmental destruction. In the five days that we spent in Andasibe, we saw at least three different family groups of indri, including a few young ones clinging to their mother. As they cannot survive in captivity, the indri are rare indeed, and we were truly fortunate to see so many up close. The entire species could be gone in a few generations, another of victim of man’s desperate quest to sustain himself through natural resource consumption. After witnessing the poverty of the Malagasy people, I can understand why subsistence farmers behave the way they do. They slash and burn through the forest because, in their view, they have no viable alternatives to keep food on the table and are under pressure by the ever-growing population. They can hardly be blamed for this sentiment, though the consequence, here as elsewhere, is the disappearance of more members of the animal kingdom that may soon be relegated to the history books.

Aside from the indri, there were many other creatures to entertain us. We saw two large groups of diademed sifaka, the largest of all lemurs. They swing from tree to tree effortlessly, far faster than hapless tourists can crash through the underbrush in pursuit of them. During the night hikes we came across several woolly lemurs and even one dwarf lemur, which our guide spotted traversing a telephone line along the side of the road. Sara and I chased it for about a hundred yards before it stopped in a tree and we were able to get a good look at it. And of course there were many birds: paradise flycatchers flitting between branches, the nuthatch vanga creeping down tree trunks, and the blue coua. The latter species – a gorgeously iridescent avian the size of a large pigeon – was easily my favorite. We saw three or four of them, some only a few meters away. Then there were the chameleons, Madagascar’s second mascot. We saw several species, most of them at night, including one diminutive specimen that we witnessed in the middle of a hunt: projecting its tongue with startling speed to a nearby leaf, where it secured dinner from some unsuspecting insect.

The trip from Andasibe to Vatomandry took about three hours. We wound along a highway that followed the hills, passing through remote villages of wooden shacks, piles of breadfruit, and large stands of banana trees. Many of these roadside settlements appear to rely on the steady stream of commercial trucks making their way from Tamatave – Madagascar’s primary seaport – to the capital city. Vendors sell food and drinks to the passers-by, a vital economic lifeline, and some even sell troves of bananas to the truckers to be resold at a profit in Tana. I did my best to take note of the land and its inhabitants: the vibrant clothing of the hill peoples (a lot of pink, curiously), the campaign posters stapled to every available wall, the villagers asking for donations to fix the roads in pothole-ridden areas. I knew that I was unlikely to every see such a place again; the window of our vehicle became my window into another life, a reality that could easily have been my own had I been born in a rice paddy to subsistence farmers in rural Madagascar. Lush, rolling countryside of traveler’s palm – a fan-shaped tree that purportedly offers aid to errant voyagers with the water stored within its stalk – was the most striking feature of the landscape. As we approached Vatomandry, the vibrant green receded to parched fields of white sand and scrub. We rolled into this little town at the edge of the world, our gateway to the Indian Ocean, completely new to my eyes.

Harrison parked on the edge of the golden sands in the shadow of a grove of trees, pledging to wait for our return in a couple of hours. Sara and I trotted off into the wilderness of sand, empty of people save for some fishermen preparing to send their boats out to sea. The sun beat down from a brilliant sapphire sky, but the heat was not oppressive, and the sea brought with it air that was as light and crisp as any I have tasted in the Pacific Northwest. We toured the dugout canoes – called pirogues – which have not fundamentally changed in centuries. Dozens were left on the beach unattended, awaiting the fishermen who ply their craft daily through the surf to bring home the treasures of the sea. Away from the shore, perhaps two hundred meters out, we could see what appeared to be an outcropping of volcanic rock with a lone palm tree gleaming in the sun. A cement tower about a mile away, standing like a sentinel amongst the mangrove shrubs, became the focus of our journey. We named it the “Dharma Station” even before we could get up close, as it appeared to have been ripped from the script of Lost, a TV series that Sara and I had both enjoyed in its heyday. The tower, we discovered, was hollow on the inside and an iron ladder – elevated out of our reach – promised a trip to the top for anyone intrepid enough to try. I suspected that the structure at one time had served some practical function, and an acquaintance of mine confirmed for me weeks later that it was in fact formerly a lighthouse, meant to warn incoming ships of their distance to the rocky coast of Vatomandry.

In any case, there was no hatch or smoke monster to be found, so we chose a spot to lay our towels on the sand and had an impromptu jam session on the ukulele. I taught Sara the chords and strumming pattern to “Wagon Wheel,” a song I had recently learned. For me, this trip took on a special significance because it was an opportunity for my sister and I to spend time in a way that hadn’t been possible previously. Despite being full biological siblings, we had only met recently as adults in our thirties, and so my discovery of Madagascar came to be eclipsed by my discovery of my sister – this mystery that I had long contemplated and that I now had the blessing of knowing. Madagascar, in fact, was only the fourth time I had seen her face to face.

The day after we returned to Andasibe from Vatomandry, we began our journey back to Tana. In Moromanga, the largest town in the area, we stopped for lunch at a Chinese restaurant. Harrison explained that this part of the country has a large Cantonese population who immigrated within the last century. Indeed, Moromanga has a pagoda displayed in a public park near the main street and many storefronts displayed Chinese characters. Soupe chinoise – which I believe is something similar to wanton soup – is a commonly served item judging by the menus. The establishment we visited was called either the Golden Dragon or the Golden Chicken, a name familiar to anyone who’s been to a Chinatown (or really any Chinese restaurant) anywhere in the US. The restaurant owner had distinctively East Asian features, though I did not have the audacity to ask her about her ancestry. Sara and I each had a plate of unexceptional Cantonese food, but before we left I purchased some almond cookies, which I found to have the exact same texture and taste as the cookies my family and I used to buy at the Chinatown in Seattle. Biting in to them reminded me of home, and made me realize the cultural reach of the Chinese diaspora. The Chinese, and in particular southern Chinese, have settled in every continent and have added their culinary distinctives to every culture. When I explained to Harrison that Sara and I are both Chinese, he was astonished. “I thought you were Latino,” he said.

We arrived back in Tana before dark, enough time to take a taxi to the Ivandry neighborhood of the city to have dinner with two of my expat friends. We met at l’Oriental, a Lebanese restaurant, where we feasted on plates of chickpea and eggplant hummus, falafel, tabbouleh, and flatbread. I consider this the best meal I ever had in Madagascar; the Lebanese diaspora is nearly as universal as that of the Chinese, but with better food, in my opinion. I also realized that this was the first time I had introduced my sister to some of my friends, in any context, and it was happening in Madagascar of all places. When I rode with her to the airport the next day, stuck in an hourlong traffic-jam near the US embassy, we continued what had been a non-stop conversation ever since her arrival on topics ranging from spirituality to athletics and politics. As roadside merchants tapped on our windows hawking their various wares, we discussed our childhoods, similar and different, and the seemingly arbitrary whims of fate that can alter the destinies of people. We were set in opposite directions some three decades ago, but at some point these divergent paths began to converge, leading to our first face-to-face encounter two summers ago that I now see as an inevitability.

At the airport, I waited in the terminal until Sara had processed through the line and was on her way to the baggage check-in counter. Then, as I rode back to my apartment, I felt a sort of absence. She had been here, and now she wasn’t. It was a strange feeling to have, though as I reflect on this more I realize that it should not have been unexpected. I suppose there is a part of me that wants to make up for lost time, for the childhood that we didn’t have together. The cry of the indri, the clouds in the forest, the resplendence of the blue coua – as I look back, all of these things take on a new significance from the very fact that my own sister was there to see them with me. We walked into the forest together and emerged knowing something new about ourselves. Madagascar, for me, will always be part of the bridge into this new area of my life, the lost continent uniting and making whole what was once separated.