Haven’t been writing for a while because of a three day camping trip to Andohahela national parc. We voyaged there by Taxi-brousse, an aged van in which we crammed far too many people and on the top of which we packed twenty odd framepacks and a basket of live chickens. The ride was incredible, taking us bouncing along dirt roads past little villages where they were baking bricks and making charcoal. When we got to Andohahela, we were in the « transitional forest » part of the reserve, where most of the plants are dry and spiny and the landscape is reminescent of the Grand Canyon. Or maybe mars. Sisal plants, an incvasive brought here from Mexico during the colonial days, grows everywhere in bizarre spiky lumps. While there we practiced conducting a biological botanical survey, a process made almost impossible by the Malagasy/French/English language barrier ; we were all required to speak french exclusively, resulting in many malentendus. After a long hot day in the spiny forest, we were led down a twisting path to find that the mostly dry riverbed slowly turned into a stream, a series of deep pools, and then a cascade. The water was amazingly warm thanks to the hot rock it was running over, and the pools were all deep enough to dive deep into. I even got to play with my first leeches, about which I was ecstatic. During the mornings I was able to get up early and pot Souimanga sunbirds, jerries, and coucals. At night my friend Brandon and I went hunting through the forest and found a nocturnal mouse lemur, and the fattest chameleon I’ve yet seen, a tiny pink and green creature smaller than my fist. When we returned to camp, it was time for a Malafranglish singing and dancing session. We sang Malagasy songs and played rock on the guitar Sosony, a professor, had brought along. Then we taught the Malagasy students some dance games and had a great time mixing cultures. The chickens were disposed in an exciting way; our professor, Mamy, taught us how to pin them down, then passed around the knife. I was the third to kill a chicken, and it was… dramatic. Not only is it true that the body, once decapitated, continues to move around, spraying blood as far as a yard away, but the head continues to blink and twitch. Nonetheless, I killed my chicken, and ate it for lunch later that day. It likely won’t be the last, either. Sorry if this is a bit abbreviated, but I need to get home to my host family; we’re due for some more Malagasy lessons, and I have some tables of spiny forest plants to write up. Love you all, feel free to email!
-charlotte
