Thoughts From The Red Canyon

You’d think that all that slaughter and sacrifice would put me off my dinner but anyone who knows me knows that food is one of my great joys. I will simply never look like a runway model because I appreciate the qualities of a good meal far too much. Despite the rather bloody scene we were leaving behind we were all ready for lunch by the time the last crocodile disappeared into the lake. We went to a well renowned roadside café called ‘Snack 17’ where we all indulged in a new experience- Mr Bray chose to try bat, an experience I have already survived and was not keen to repeat, and Mrs Bray had miniature wild duck while Caroline and I decided that there would be no better day to try crocodile steak (not from the sacred ones of course- as that would have been cannibalism after all).

Crocodile Steak and Chips... mmmm yes please

The food was delightful and even the bat, which this time came sans fur, wings and face, and was not the chore I remember it being in Tana. Soon we were fortified and ready for the road and I was just as excited for this second part of our day as I had been for the first.

We drove back toward Diego, with the driver and the guide stopping amongst the Khat plantations to stock up for the weekend. The driver ever began chewing in the car, a fact that Mrs Bray quite understandably was not a fan of. We were soon at the turning for the Tsingy reserve and from here the road began to live up to its reputation. Even by the time we reached the entrance and the ticket booth we were all quite certain that anything other than a 4x4 would simply leave you stranded on this path. A further 20km down the path, which took us around half an hour, sometimes through forest and sometimes along ridges providing incredible views of the Northern regions, we finally reached the first Tsingy outcrop, the smallest and least impressive of the three- or so we were informed.

Looking down into the gorge the Tsingy looked like patches of pale coral emerging from the deep red earth. They were impressive to look at and rather ‘otherworldly’ somehow. This impression only intensified as we descended on foot into the gorge and the scale of the Tsingy became more apparent. This landscape- a blood red bowl seemingly carved out of a lush green valley, filled with jagged stalagmites piercing through the earth- would not have been out of place on an episode of Dr Who or Star Trek.

Looking down on the Tsingy from the car...

This smallest of the formations is unattended, which meant that we could get really close to the Tsingy and in amongst the bigger pillars. Unlike its grey karst limestone counterparts the Tsingy Rouge are sandy- softer than I would have imagined, leaving a pale pink residue on your fingers and clothes. The laterite soil of which these formations are made is rich in iron and aluminium and is given its colour by the iron oxides in its make-up. It was formed much more recently than one might imagine, sometime in the former half of the 20^th century, when soil erosion due to deforestation allowed the pattern to emerge. Each rain changes the shape of the Tsingy Rouge slightly and experts predict that eventually the whole things might be worn away to nothing.

Me and the 'small' Tsingy- now tell me that's not a set off Dr Who!

I was already delighted by the experience of seeing these temporary natural works of art as we piled into the 4x4 for the next leg of the drive, but little did I know the wonder to come. Around 20 minutes later we reached a fork in the road and pulled into the undergrowth- I could see nothing resembling the gorge we had just left and wondered whether the driver was mistaken. Through cheeks swollen by Khat and a voice muffled by its anaesthetic properties the guide gestured beyond the bushes and trees by the roadside and mumbled ‘Canyon’. Upon parting the final branches I beheld one of the most awe-inspiring sights of my life.

The ground beneath me, grey and dry with brush and bush covering its surface, just gave way to a brilliant red cliff leading down into an enormous canyon that stretched away toward the sea opening into a green flatland. At the bottom of the canyon, up toward its point of origin were the most fantastic Tsingy Rouge formations- they were enormous rising out of the ground like volcanoes and I was reminded of the sheer mountainsides of Northern Laos. The rock just rises out of the ground vertical and insurmountable as if being pushed from beneath. The ridges formed along the tops of the formations only began after a sheer drop of several hundred meters. The canyon itself was not to be scoffed at either and only by looking at the river running through its centre could you get a sense of its vast proportions.

Canyon mouth

Following my unsuccessful attempts to capture the vastness and impact of the canyon on camera we all piled back into the truck and moved on to our final destination- the large Tsingy outcrop in an accessible gulley. We pulled in to a much more modern looking visitors centre and a special guide emerged from a hut to meet us. He lead us down an unassuming path and I must admit that, as this was the first time I had really ventured out by foot since my accident, my attention was probably more on where I was putting my feet than what was ahead. We finally reached a muddy flat where the mouth of a gulley was blocked by a simple zebu pen gate. The guide dismantled a section of the gate and led us through to the wonderful landscape of the Tsingy behind. I will let the photos speak for themselves as there is little more I can say about this wonderful maze of towering pillars of rose pink stone. It was an honour to see it and walk among it and I hope the experts are wrong- it would be tragic to see it melt away into nothing.

Large Tsingy in the late afternoon light...

Exploring the Tsingy

Just when I thought nothing could make this day any better our guide found us TWO new firsts for me on the way out of the gorge and back to the car. One was a sensitive plant known as Mimosa Pudica which shies away at your touch and the other was the amazing Flatid leaf bug which disguises itself as flowers or fungi until you touch it, at which point it explodes into a swarm of tiny pink butterflies. Both were magical and did try to upload a couple of videos for them but it didn't work- although to be fair they certainly do not do them justice anyway.

As we drove away from the Tsingy park and back toward Diego I was struck by my deep love and respect for this vast and astonishing island, full of secrets so well-guarded by the land. As the afternoon storm hit I thought about the Tsingy and how each drop of rain changes their landscape so that those who come tomorrow will see something ever so slightly different from what we saw today, making each persons visit to the Tsingy Rouge a unique experience we will never be able to recapture exactly- but also making every visit you take to the Tsingy a first all over again. 

A Love of 'Firsts'

I love ‘firsts’- I always have and seeking out new ‘firsts’ has led me to some of the greatest experiences of my life. I am by nature a very cautious and boring person- I don’t do anything to excess and my feelings of guilt and duty have always put a curb on any whisper of rebellion in my soul. The pursuit of ‘firsts’, however, has always been one of my greatest pleasures and is the one thing I believe keeps me teetering on the edge of ‘depressingly boring and stade’- even if something does not initially appear to be my cup of tea I will be sorely tempted to participate if it is something I have never done before.

This drive is what has led me overseas, what has prompted me to try wacky travel, wacky food and wacky activities and has kept me excited about the way I have chosen to live my life. Even my accident evoked in me this excitement at having had my first serious accident, my first broken bone, my first bionic appendage and even gave me my first taste of travel first class. The accident, like many of my ‘firsts’, is something I would happily leave in the ‘one time only’ bin but there are others, like my experiences this past Saturday, that I would love to recreate- but somehow, even if you succeeded, there just wouldn’t be the magic there was the first time.

This week my volunteer Caroline has had her parents over to visit and as a result has been out and about with them seeing all the local beauty spots. Many of these places I have been to, and written about, before but there has always been one that eluded me- the naturally occurring rock formations known as the ‘Tsingy Rouge’. Due to their distance and reputedly ominous roads I have never had the opportunity to see these infamous rose-coloured pillars towering out of the blood red earth of the Tsingy canyon and I have always wanted to. So when Caroline said that her parents had rented a 4x4 to get them to the Tsingy and had invited me along I was more than excited.

I worked my butt off all week to ensure the trip felt well earned and I prepared for the house to be smoothly run while I went out into the sticks for the day. Caroline’s parents must have detected my sense of occasion because the day before we were due to leave they suggested we start the day with breakfast together at the most exclusive hotel in Diego, another first for me. I had hot chocolate and a fresh croissant followed by colourful macaroons and already felt pampered before we even got into the car.

This was my first major car journey since my accident and I have to admit that a combination of African roads, port-town freight traffic and a driver who pushed 90km/h soon left me feeling queasy in the front seat. When the driver sped up to try and re-overtake another 4x4 who he’d been playing leap-frog with since town I eventually gave in and asked him to pull over so I could swap seats with someone and sit in the back. I soon forgot my anxiety however as the townships of Diego gave way to the rolling hills of the North, swathed in the lush green of the rainy season. As I sat back with the wind blowing the smell of the heat into my face I felt my stresses melt away into the endless blue sky.

At breakfast, when going over the plans for the day, Caroline and the driver agreed that since the Tsingy are best seen in the glow of the afternoon that we would add a trip to the sacred lake in Anivorano in the morning before lunch and then stop off at the Tsingy on the way back to town. This suited me as I had never been to this well-known spiritual nexus and it is often referred to in local folklore and superstitions. There is also talk in town of crocodiles in the lake- yet another first for me as I had never seen crocs before and was eager to spy a spiny backbone gliding across the water.

We arrived at the entrance to the sacred lake at around 09:30 and headed down the auburn mud road toward the lake, spraying mud behind us as we slid down the path due to the recent rainfalls. The path was cut into the earth and the sides of the 4x4 were brushing the sides of the ditch as we slid down in the direction of the lake- at one point a young boy herding two huge zebu pulling a plough came struggling up in the other direction. I gasped as our driver barely slowed down but with a deft flick of his supple twig the zebu hauled themselves, and the plough over the verge and down onto a field parallel to the road.

When we finally arrived at the lake it was exactly as I had pictured it- mango trees flanked the shore and between the rushes at the waters edge you were treated to a glorious view of sparkling water in the morning sun. It was certainly picturesque and a glorious natural beauty but something was off. All around us were local Malagasy, dressed in their Sunday best and heading toward the banks of the lake. I removed my shoes, as is the custom in any sacred area, and let the river mud squelch between my toes before heading down to the lake to see what all the fuss was about. The sounds of pounding feet, clapping, singing and ululating got stronger as I headed toward the banks of the lake and I stopped for a while to watch the local people dancing and singing in a hypnotic rhythm as a small zebu calf was led down to a large tree on the edge of the rushes. I asked what the zebu was there for and was amazed by the reply: “today is a sacrifice day. The zebu will be slaughtered and the blood used to call the crocodiles to the banks where they will be fed sanctified meat to thank them for bestowing blessings on a family who sought their help”. 

We had arrived at the perfect time, totally by fluke, and were welcomed into the group with open arms. I was about to witness a local custom few Malagasy had even seen and in the process spot more than a floating flash of crocodile, as I had dared to hope on our approach. The ceremony had begun in earnest and with the singing and pounding reaching fever pitch something unbelievable happened- lured by the vibrations they know to precede a good meal the crocodiles began to gather. The tell-tale ‘S’ shaped ripples began to come across the lake towards us and then suddenly around ten of natures most powerful predators were hauling themselves out of the water and heading straight for the sound of singing- and us.

Lining up for lunch

"A Table!"... "J'arrive!"

The entire ceremony passed in a blur. Three families had coordinated to offer up thanks to the crocodiles on this day so as we watched two large fattened animals were brought to join the calf and all three were bound tight. The blessing began with women from the donating families washing the cows in fresh water before slapping the flank of the animal to send it on it’s way into the afterlife. At this point the air became thick with the smell of incense as the local spiritual leader began to pray over each zebu, accompanied by the sounds of blades being sharpened beneath the tree. Finally each cows neck was twisted and stretched and a ceremonial knife was used to slit each throat before an axe was taken to the neck of the beast. None of the zebu seemed to struggle and there was very little noise to speak of but watching them die gave me mixed feelings. The blood was so red it looked like fake Halloween blood and some was collected onto a golden plate, which was then washed in the lake to announce the start of the feeding. Then, with all three cows lifeless, the men began to remove the most sacred parts of the animal for the crocodiles.

Sacrifice

First came the fatty hump- the most expensive and valued part of any zebu, followed by a chuck off the rump and the testicles. The men tossed each part across to the waiting crocodiles, who swallowed each piece whole without much effort. The feast then proceeded to the legs, hooves, ribs and so on until the whole right side of the three zebu had been devoured by the waiting reptiles- obvious throwbacks to the dinosaurs who once roamed the planet.

I have never seen such power as was evidenced by the crocodiles. The crunched through even the toughest bones without a thought and swallowed whole legs and rib sections whole. The were quiet and patient and appeared to take turns waiting for the offering before turning and slithering over their brothers to consume their winnings in the shallows before re-joining the back of the queue.

Despite their apparent docility I was a little nervous to be just a few feet away from one of natures deadliest predators and I voiced my concerns to a group of friendly Malagash. They laughed and replied that since the sacred crocodiles were once human they do not eat human flesh, as that would be cannibalistic. And so I learned the legend of the sacred lake:

Reminders of the sacrifices that came before...

“A long long time ago a village once stood on the spot where the sacred lake is now. The people of this village all belonged to one tribe and were a tight knit community who helped each other get through hard times. However, one afternoon during the hot season, when the sun was high in the sky and the red clay burned the soles of the feet a stranger staggered into the village. He was not of their tribe and he came unannounced to the village- he was stumbling and sweating and crying out for water. But water was scarce and the villagers were loathe to share what they had with an outsider. The old man collapsed in the centre of the village and cried “I am dying of thirst- will no one give me a sip of water”. One by one the villagers turned their backs and left the man to die. Only an old woman hovered behind and finally came forward with a bowl half full of water saying, “It is not much, but what I have I share with you”. The man thanked the old woman and warned her that her village would be punished for their selfishness and greed and that she should leave the village if she valued her life. She did as the man warned and that night, from the top of a nearby hill, she watched as water began to flood the village, submerging the houses of her neighbours and flowing freely through the streets. She knew the curse of the stranger was taking shape- the village was drowning in the very water he had been denied. But that was not all- the selfish villagers, who had been willing to watch a stranger die for want of a drink, were suddenly transformed into crocodiles; cold blooded and vicious they would be cursed to live forever surrounded by water, feared and loathed by those who came upon them. Some say if you look closely you can still make out their identities by the bracelets and earrings they wear.”

It turns out that even now the Malagasy believe that, infused with the powers of the supernatural, one can strike a bargain with the crocodiles- give me my wish and I will bring a fatted calf to the banks of the lake in thanks. That is why so many Malagasy make deals with the crocodiles of the sacred lake, and are dedicated in fulfilling their end of the bargain if their prayers are answered.

Don't see any earrings on this one...

I did not see any jewellery on the crocodiles in the lake, but perhaps that is because I am a sceptic and I tricked my brain into seeing that flash of gold or silver as a ripple or reflection in the water. The crocodiles seemed to know when the feast was over as they turned, en mass, and slid back into the water as soon as the spiritual leader began to divide the left sides of the cows among the gathered crowds.

I watched as the spiny ridges snaked across the surface of the lake into the glare of the sun and wondered what I have done in my life to deserve the gift of such experiences as this. I am so grateful for the life I live despite my occasional lapses in faith and I know these memories will keep me strong when life gets tough…

Look out for part 2 of this blog ‘Sakafo and Tsingy”

Thoughts From A Life In Limbo

The hospital bed that is now base-camp

The sky in the Indian Ocean burns my eyes. Each morning when I pull up the blinds that infinite ciel blue, uninterrupted by cloud, is so bright that my tired eyes, dulled by five weeks living in a cave of artificial light, cannot process its purity. It is the same when, after significant effort, I drag myself downstairs and out into the fresh air- I have to allow my eyes several minutes to adjust to the brilliance as spots of white light dance across my vision.

My life has evolved over the last five weeks into a kind of semi-life, a hibernation, a limbo of existence. A day is considered a success if I manage to get dressed in everyday clothes, if I face the effort it takes to wash and dry myself, if I succeed in avoiding the allure of the bed during daylight hours. I occasionally force myself to exit the hospital that has become both prison and womb, but even then it is only to drape myself across one of the benches in the forecourt, usually dressed in an eclectic mix of inappropriate clothing, chosen for their comfort and the ease with which I can slip them over my cast.

I am a strange beast here in the hospital, neither well enough to be discharged nor sick enough to take kindly to the suffocation of my internment. I am constantly greeted with the question “still here?” and as I wander the corridors and courtyards I am aware of the questions in the eyes of those who contemplate my pilgrimage. My leg betrays me, swelling uncontrollably and turning the visible portions a deep, angry purple in protest if I overexert myself and I can go from frustrated and full of energy to exhausted and trembling in a matter of minutes.

Looking bored at the end of the afternoon...

 The breath-taking natural beauty of the mountains I look upon from windows and terraces around the building are in stark juxtaposition to the looming tower of concrete and iron in which we reside.  The routine of hospital life is exhausting; nurses and orderlies come and go at all hours and my room is no private safe-haven. If the staff knock before entering, which is unusual, they rarely wait for a reply and respect no timetable but their own waking me at 5am for blood draws and again at midnight to ask if I need anything. I almost broke the other leg the other day when a nurse opened the bathroom door without knocking as I was standing in the damp, slippery wet-room, balanced on one leg, trying to dry myself with the tea-rag they call a towel. And yet I cannot deny the dedication and affability of the staff here- always smiling despite the varying moods of those in their care, gentle and concerned in the face of a worry, however ridiculous, and interested in the lives of those around them.

My days seem endless and are mostly controlled by the schedules of friends and family, which dictate when I can expect to receive contact and distraction. The rest of my day is filled with reading books and watching DVDs kindly donated by the English speaking community on the island, rallied to my cause by an dynamo of a woman whose attention was brought to my plight by my fathers comments on Facebook. Therese took on the role of friend and saviour without missing a beat. She visits almost every day with stories of the island and anecdotes from friends, she has sent an army of people to visit and is constantly checking on my progress. The clothes I wear are hers, the snacks I squirrel away are treats she collects throughout her day and my toiletries are the best organic and natural products that she insists on providing me. In her I am truly blessed.

 

With all my books and DVDs from friends...

I try not to think of what’s going to happen next because no one seems to know and it is too hard to be in a constant state of expectation. What I do know is that this stage of my recovery is about to end and another, more challenging one, is about to begin. At some point over the next two weeks the surgeon will make the decision to take off the cast (depending on the quality of bone fusion he sees in my x-rays). This event will signify the beginning of the second part of my journey. It will mean that I am ready to fly (in a plane of course- the surgery gave me no magical powers sadly) and also that I am ready to begin physiotherapy and re-education.

I have been warned that rather than the cast removal being just another step on the ladder, it will in fact take me all the way back down to the bottom rung. I will have to be prepared that my post-cast leg will swell again and that and my old friend Pain will be back with a vengeance, returning to the levels I experienced in the first 10 days post-surgery, necessitating the reinstitution of a regular drug regime. I will be unstable, weak, stiff and fatigued and a 12-hour flight to the UK is only going to exacerbate all these symptoms. So I will arrive in the UK tired and bruised, swollen and sad and in need of a once over by a doctor. But once I am back in Wimbledon I can focus on my physiotherapy exercises and try to kick the crutches as quickly as possible so that my re-education can finally begin.

My pathetic personal struggle is a constant psychological contradiction for me. I am frustrated and afraid (anyone who has ever met me will tell you what a wimp I am) and yet I am constantly witness to situations and difficulties that dwarf my own, leading to intense feelings of guilt. Those around me are standing tall, pillars of stone in the face of the howling wind, while I feel like a whimpering child in the corner, witness to the devastation of the world and unable to act. I have nothing but respect for the friends and colleagues I am leaving behind in Madagascar, fighting the good fight, not least of which is my own mother, who has taken up the mantel and is shouldering every single one of my responsibilities there without a sigh of complaint.  I long for the day when I can re-join the ranks. Without the life I had begun to build I feel empty and I struggle to pick myself out of the crowd.

Yet, having said all that I am looking forward to continuing my recovery in London, surrounded by family and friends who vow to support and encourage me as I relearn the most basic of skills, standing, walking and climbing stairs. To that end, I have ordered a couple of things on line that tickled me... one for me and one for my long-suffering boyfriend who has promised to be at my disposal when I get back to the UK...

FOR ME- "What I really need are MINIONS!"

FOR BRIAN- "Pick me! Pick me!"

I didn't need to get anything for the rest of my cheer squad who, thanks to my uncle's dedication and wicked sense of humour, are all drinking out of these: