Previously on The Escape Hatch: We flew to Madagascar (which was no mean feat), staved off jet lag with a visit to a lemur park, joined a tour group, went into the rainforest, got food poisoning, drove into the countryside, visited some artisans, saw even more rainforest… and I realized that maybe I’m not as cut out for hard travel as I used to be. The story continues:
When you travel as we do, often lugging one or more slightly-nicer-than-average cameras around, part of the fun (and sometimes annoying duty) is the hunt to find the perfect photo to sum up your trip—the “postcard shot,” as I like to think of it. In Madagascar, we took over 5,000 photos between the Canon I was using and Lea’s Olympus, of which we kept about 800. Absolutely perfect photographs are rarer still. Sometimes, getting those shots requires you to hike all the way from the Shire to the slopes of Mount Doom (as we did that time in Ecuador), and sometimes those shots just fall into your lap. Over the next two days, we’d come across both: an easy-to-reach perfect shot, and one that made me question the sanity of world travel.
Let’s begin.
Day Seven: Lemurs Up Close
We got up insanely early to hit the road. It was, as usual, very slow going—often due to potholes, and sometimes due to this:
Our tour guide Armand made the executive decision to skip a visit to a paper-making workshop so we could get straight to the lemurs. As cool as hand-crafted paper would have been (and we later bought some to bring home), it was definitely the right choice given our schedule. By late morning, we pulled up to the Anja Reserve in Ambalavao. No rainforest here, just relatively low trees, flat pastureland for zebu, and low mountains all around.
The trees and the ground around them were crawling with chameleons and even more ring-tailed lemurs. Unlike their rainforest cousins, who maximized the distance between them and us humans, these were apparently so accustomed to tourists that they were only slightly annoyed by our presence, and not nearly enough to bother hiding. It was almost like a petting zoo where we were the animals on display. At one point, I was so focused on taking a picture of a lemur above me that I didn’t even notice the ones ignoring me at my feet.
The whole reason we’d picked October to visit Madagascar was because it was lemur baby season, and the babies were out in force, clinging and crawling all over their mothers. (I don’t think I ever saw a baby lemur on its own.) In my ongoing quest for the perfect postcard shot, this was like shooting fish in a barrel—not that I’d ever do that, of course.
I can’t tell you how many pictures I took within the space of an hour at that park. Lemurs in trees. Lemurs on the ground. Lemurs grooming. Lemurs running. Lemurs alone. Lemurs in groups. The occasional lizard. A lemur and her children. Some pictures didn’t come out. Some pictures were OK. Some were good, but none were quite perfect.
Until…
There it was.
As soon as I took it and looked at the result on my camera’s display, I knew I’d taken the Postcard Shot for the trip. Hell, it felt like I’d captured the definitive National Geographic cover photo for all of ring-tailed lemurdom. I’m not often comfortable bragging, and probably one of you readers out there with more photographic know-how will be happy to point out everything wrong with it, but for my money, that’s easily among the Top 10 pictures I’ve taken in my life, and certainly one of the best involving wildlife.
But, of course, we couldn’t stop there. We still had a week left in country and more to see, but as long as my camera’s SD card didn’t crap out before I had a chance to back it up to my laptop, I knew I had a winner for our collection.
And that was pretty much that for that day. We retired from the field for a very windy picnic of cheese sandwiches and assorted fruit. My stomach had mostly settled, so it seemed, and all we had left was more hours on the road. On the way to our next stop, we passed along the edge of Isalo National Park, where we’d go the next day. The landscape had grown rockier, much to the pleasure of Lea and KT. I don’t recall much of the drive though, so I assume it passed without incident. (I expect I was zoned out with my headphones on, staring at the passing landscape and wondering when the next pit stop was.)
Next stop: Hôtel le Relais de la Reine de l’Isalo. As Madagascar goes, this place was swank. The rooms were nice, the wifi existed, the drinks were cold, the restaurant was fancy in that particular French way in which the waiters have to explain every option on the menu. What more could you want? Laundry service! They did laundry, so we sorted our clothes into laundry bags and wrote “Do Not Iron” in English, French, and Malagasy on the ticket.
The day had been good. We’d spent it on easy mode. The next day, for me, would be a bit trickier.
Day Eight: Madagascar’s Grand Canyon
Up and at ‘em the next day for an excursion to Isalo National Park, where we’d hike to what Armand called “Madagascar’s Grand Canyon.” The park wasn’t far as the crow flies, but it was at least an hour’s drive to get there—not because the roads were bad, but because for part of the way, there weren’t roads at all, and we were in a bus.
As we’d moved south and west through the country, the climate had gone from Brazil to Arizona. The part we were in now was dry, dry, dry. Bring water: Yes. Ponchos: No. Fire extinguishers: Maybe? Some of the plant life we’d see on this hike had evolved specifically to thrive and survive the brush fires that weren’t uncommon in the area.
Anyway, the existence of a canyon implies a gorge, but whereas in Arizona you can drive up to the ledge, in Isalo, you have to climb up to the edge before you get to look down.
The hike took a while, first up a steep, rocky trail, then across a relatively flat patch of scrubland surrounded by towers of rock. Lea and KT were in geologist heaven, but I was starting to feel the physical strain of my out-of-shape body, the sun beating down, and the cramping of my overtaxed innards that still hadn’t fully recovered from my bout of food poisoning half a week before.
After crossing the scrubland, we climbed yet again—this time with the target pinnacle of rock in sight. KT and Lea lagged further behind; they didn’t need a guide, since they had plenty to look at in the rocks on their own . There was another group ahead of us at the ledge, and they wound their way down as we crept up to replace them.
The rock tower looked over a pretty big valley, and while the Grand Canyon comparison was perhaps a bit overstated (this one was wider than it was deep), I don’t begrudge Armand a little tourist hype. After taking in the sights from on high, we carefully climbed down and gathered for a trek into the valley itself.
My stomach gurgled.
And this, my friends, is where I hit peak vacation regret. Despite the objective beauty of my surroundings, all I could suddenly think about was how many hours it would take to find a toilet from where I was standing. It’s not that I was really that sick. It’s just that all at once, I realized that what I really wanted was a comfortable chair, a little bit of shade, endless access to cold beverages, and restroom facilities really nearby. In other words, I wanted to be on my porch at home, not following a bunch of strangers across a scorching dry scrubland on the opposite side of the planet.
Obviously, by now, the only way out was through, so I slogged along with the group. As we went down in elevation (on the opposite side of the ridge from our bus), the greenery slowly got greener and greener. Soon enough, we saw why: A stream running through the heart of the valley poured over a fall into a beautiful oasis—a “natural swimming pool,” as it was billed by the travel company.
This time, they weren’t exaggerating. The oasis was picture-perfect: another Postcard Shot if there ever was one.
People (not I) stripped down to bathing suits and eased into the water. A rocky overhang provided shade and shelter for those of us who wanted it. Gorgeous red dragonflies buzzed around, mostly ignoring the lumbering humans who’d invaded their little tropical empire. Everyone had a good time.
But I was miserable. Here’s why persistent depressive disorder really sucks. All it takes is some consistent hard knocks (such as the various mental and physical frustrations the last week had thrown at me), and the general background of ambient blues that’s always there in my head can nosedive into a pool of black. And here, at this undeniable wonder of nature, I wasn’t just miserable—I was miserable that I was miserable. I was consciously aware of my emotional state, just as much as I could feel my guts trying to decide if they’d calm down or explode at any moment. I’d traveled halfway around the planet to see this, and my own mind and body were conspiring against me.
And no, you can’t just “cheer up” in these situations. The best you can hope for is to get back on an even keel, so that’s what I did. I sat in the shade, ignored my rumbling stomach, took pictures, drank water, and did my best to live in the moment, which meant enjoying life vicariously through everyone else.
Which, honestly, turned out to be fine. I hadn’t thought to pack a swimsuit anyway (which will be a problem in our next installment, dear readers), and sitting in the shade by a clear blue-green pool is a million times better than slogging through the rainforest in a poncho (see last time).
When all was said and done, we hiked back up the canyon via a different route to a campground where Armand’s loyal helpers laid out a fantastic lunch spread. Better yet, there were restroom facilities (the mere proximity of which calmed my stomach) and ice-cold soft drinks.
My mood improved by an order of magnitude for the duration of lunch, and even afterward. It wasn’t a short hike back to the bus, but at least it was level or downhill all the way, and though I was 50 shades of worn out, we made it back to the hotel (as if that was ever in doubt). There was still plenty of afternoon left, which I spent in the shade on the patio outside our room, blissfully enjoying doing nothing and going nowhere.
But wait! There’s more. That evening, we hopped back on the bus for a short drive to a scenic sunset view, lounge chairs, drinks, and dancing with these lovely performers:
One last Postcard Shot for the road:
Next time: Really stonkin’ big trees.