Field Notes #17: Fragments of Mada

Text by Sabine Cudney-Valenzuela

​Tana
Up in the sky, after 32 hours of travel, I opened the airplane window to a pitch-black night. On the ground, you could barely see any lights, just the occasional orange moon-shaped glows of slash-and-burn agriculture. I landed at Antananarivo, the “city of a thousand soldiers,” by midnight and dragged myself through Immigration and Customs until 1:30 AM. On my way out, a smiling man who had been waiting for me all this time received me with my name written on a piece of paper and helped me get my luggage on the car. We tried to exchange a few words, but it soon became clear that he only spoke Malagasy and that my French was much worse than I could remember. But we managed to find our way through choppy words and gestures, and he dropped me off at my hotel in the city for a well-deserved rest.
​
The next morning, I went to explore the city. The streets of Tana seem frozen in time in many ways. Maybe it’s the old Renault 4s and the Citroen 2CVs that fill the streets, or the brick-pitched-roof houses built all together, or the people wearing fedoras and semiformal suits. The city gives you a feeling like everything is a lively market. A woman piles up mangoes and lychees in small pyramids next to dry fish, while another one tries on lambas of every color and negotiates the price. It doesn’t take long before I hear a word that will define my position in this country: “Bonjour Vazaha!” It means foreigner/white person, and it’s used regularly by people in the streets to call my attention. People crowd the sidewalks selling all kinds of stuff next to each other: chickens, fruits, pans, clothes, plastics, crafts. An old lady is selling a small bucket of roasted peanuts. Another man extends a bandana on the floor and sells two used belts, and an alarm clock. Kids carrying kids don’t sell anything but extend their hand squishing their fingers together as if to catch a drop of rain.

The view from my hotel in Tana

​Ranomafana
The drive to Ranomafana is long and treacherous. From Tana, it has taken me between 11 hours to 2 days, depending on the road and car conditions. My gaze locks on the picturesque countryside with slim two-story brick houses looming over the rice fields when I’m suddenly jerked into a car-sized pothole. The road is shared by people, cows, and colorful zebu carts, and it’s often transformed into a market whenever it cuts through a town. I’m always entertained to see all the kinds of things people fit over the taxi-brousse (the vans) or their bikes. You can see ducks and chickens poking their heads out through the holes of woven baskets tied to the taxi-brousse ceiling. The other day I saw someone carrying a mid-sized live pig wrapped in a straw-mat like a giant burrito on their bike.

A taxi-brousse packed with chickens

​After two days and several car breakdowns, we finally made it to Ranomafana. It’s a small town next to a wide river, and it got its name, “hot water”, from the nearby hot springs. Many people know it only as an addition to the national park, but for my students from different regions of Madagascar and myself, it’s become a fond familiar place. I feel happy when I’m recognized and greeted at the local hotely (small Malagasy restaurant) after not being there for a while. It has taken me several attempts and a lot of laughs to learn how to ask for the dish that I want; sometimes resorting to charades of the animal I’m attempting to eat.

​The Camp
My current research is largely focused on how forests regenerate in fragmented landscapes. The remaining forest surrounding regenerating forest fragments can influence regeneration outcomes directly, since they are the seed sources, but also indirectly, since they host the seed-dispersing species that can bring seeds to the regenerating sites. So, this means I work mostly outside of protected areas and have to cover vast extensions of land to reach the forest fragments; which means lots of hiking.
We started the hike on a spicy, bright sunny day and no shade nearby. My Vazaha identity is further reinforced with my REI outfit from head to toe, which contrasts starkly with everyone else’s. I feel over the top when I have to take off my boots to wade through the river while everyone else passes by barefoot or in flipflops flawlessly. I feel even more of a Vazaha when I’m all the way on the back of the group, struggling to carry my backpack under the scorching sun, while men from other villages swiftly pass me by, each carrying four jerry cans of toaka gasy (distilled liqueur artisanally produced in the mountains and sold in the city) for several kilometers.

A rice field looking over Ranomafana

Little kids of Bevoahazo peeking at our campsite

​After three hours of hiking, we made it to the village of Bevoahazo, tucked between two mountains. It’s a small village of about 50 adobe houses. The streets are not defined and don’t follow straight lines, so walking through the village gives you a feeling of going through a clay labyrinth. When we arrived, a bunch of kids huddled together shyly in the corner, looking at us while giggling. Many girls and women wear colorful straw squared hats that they wear over their two braids folded in a loop over their ears, while others style their braids in two buns near their forehead. We set up our tents within a house, and the kids could not love it more. They were watching every movement, every piece of gear, peeking through the door and the windows, and giggling. Such oddballs, we must be. Even after we finished setting up our tents, the kids kept looking at everything I did for hours. I sat down to read by the door, and they were just watching and giggling all along. Laughs exploded even more with every “Salama” (hello) I offered them or any failed communication attempt.

​When the sun set, we went to greet the elders of the village. The room was small and smoky and was only lit by the cooking fire in the corner. The floor was covered in palm mats, and the nine of us sat shoulder to shoulder either on the floor, the 10-cm tall stools, or the bed of the elder. I uttered the few words in Malagasy that I know. “Faly mahafantatra anao”: I’m happy to meet you. The rest of the conversation moved by through shadows and faces without me understanding. Kava, our field coordinator, translated to me that they were very happy to have us and to bring work to the village. I was also very happy we could be of help. They brought us voanjobory (a type of round bean that tastes like peanuts) and rice for dinner, and we went to bed.
​
The hike the next day started at the break of dawn on a foggy morning. It was going to be a long day since we needed to hike for 5 hours up the hill and 4 on our way down. As soon as we started the climb, it started pouring. Rainforests have very shallow soils, so once all the soil has been washed out, all you have left is clay. And when it’s raining and with nothing to grab on to, you slide down like a penguin in reverse. But after the miserable clay climb, things got much better. Ancient trees made a roof over our heads, and with the fog and the raindrops falling, it all felt peaceful. We came upon a group of red-fronted lemurs (Eulemur rufifrons) who didn’t seem to be much bothered by us. I love how they jump from tree to tree feet first. In Mexico, where I’m from, all the monkeys swing between branches; it’s all about the arms and the prehensile tails. But here is all about the legs and the feet. They jump speedily from tree to tree, grabbing the trunk between their feet, while they grunt at us like arboreal pigs.

A red-fronted lemur (Eulemur rufifrons) with no fear of humans

​We finally made it to the plot, and we started preparing the equipment. I pulled out my slingshot to install the climbing system on a tree for the arboreal camera and began shooting. Some of the guides were looking at me, trying to understand what was going on. After a few attempts, I sat down to rest. Kava and one of the guides exchanged some words, and the next thing I knew was that the guide was climbing the tree barefoot and with no equipment, and passed the weight attached to the string to the other side of the branch (essentially what I was trying to do with the slingshot). Once again, the Vazaha with her useless equipment.

The forest of Sakaroa

​Extinctions
We came back to Center Val Bio after a few days. The difference of waking up at a state-of-the-art research station full of international researchers feels so distant from the reality outside its doors. At the entrance of the building, they have a display case with bones and remnants of extinct animals. It feels like a kick to my chest. There it is: the skull of a giant lemur (Megadalpis edwardsi), extinct only about 1000 years ago. I can only imagine these beautiful and colossal creatures creeping on the huge trees I walked by. They also have a skull of a pigmy hippo (Hippopotamus lemerlei), also extinct about 1000 years ago. These beautiful Moo Dengs of the past would have been hanging out by the same streams and rivers that so often make their way inside my boots. They also have an egg and a femur of an elephant bird (Aepyornis maximus); a giant ostrich-looking bird three meters tall, also extinct about 1000 years ago.

The display case with pieces of the past

There is still debate about how all these species went extinct. Through my eyes, it’s just the same old story we continue to live to this day. We find the same pattern all over the world, regardless of culture and time. Mastodons, saber-tooths, and camels became extinct in North America right after the first human settlements. Moas and Thylacines in Oceania. Giant sloths, Glyptodons, and Gomphotheres in South America. Not to mention the thousands of extinctions recorded in Europe, some as recent as last year. So, why would this case be any different?
​
I think it’s important to remember and take the time to grasp what we as a species are capable of. Both the good things and the bad ones. After all, the same pressures that drove those extinctions haven't disappeared. Those of us in cities may not be the ones holding the machete, but we sure are the system that makes it swing. And because we are capable of such massive effects on the planet, I know we are also capable of creating massive good. So, the question for me is not whether we caused those extinctions. The question is, do we have the determination to change?

​None of this would have been possible without our amazing field team and the landowners who have so kindly opened the doors of their homes to us. Thank you Kava, Prisca, Claude, Nirintsoa, and the thirty-some techs, guides and cooks, whose names deserve more space than a footnote.

The dream team in Ranomafana!