July 17, 2004
"Site bites"
by Karin McClune

Majunga--A Malagasy band is playing electronic piano. "Feeelings" followed by a Satchmo rendition of "Blueberry Hill". Just down the road is a party at a small cafe festooned with cloth scarves printed with crocs, the malagasy band played a never-ending tune with croud resounding refrain. With a whiskey came a plate of grated cabbage flanked by a pile of grated carrot, both the consistency or ramen noodles. People shuffled two by two in a sort of Malagasy line dance.

Dinner at Majajunga-- Down the beach and past the enormous baobab (t aboo to touch so it was said) ladies set up rickety wooden benches and make-shift tables to display bowls of eggs and skewers of something meatish, fried rounds of rice flour and banana. I learned to profer small bills after apparently purchasing several ponds of peanut coconut sweets due to lack of change. Not to mention the oysters. Even with a small bill, the lady hibachied a pile of the skewersand I feasted on zebu maybe. This was all accomplished with mime and the lady upon my "merci" mustered a "tomado" (tomorrow).

Taxi-brousse-- The majajunga "market" is something of a tourist trap, selling dodada we may buy our friends upon departure. Lamps of a carved lady with a shade on her head instead of a basket of manioc, drums never to be played, salad bowls of soft wood and spoons made of zebu horn. Just inside, though, are empty sea tortoise shells and the carefully balanced piles of 5 tangerines and a handful of string beans lined up and tied with sisal. To see another side of the city, I hopped on a taxi-brousse #3. The aisle is narrow,ceiling low, more like a mini-van with wooden slat sides. People with babies and boxes held together with twine pile on and off and give the kid hanging off the back 1000 MgF. They come, they go, a little way, a long way. An hour later, the driver's concern seems to deepen. They speak to me and I shrug my I-don't-knoww-shrug until we stop. I draw a circle in the air, give him another 1000 and the aha lightbulb goes on. They laugh direct me to the seat next to the driver and we rattle and rumble on. Next I try #5.

Walk by Ravelobe Lake--In small groups so as to limit disturbance, (oh sure, they won't notice us gallumping through the quiet, crushing the wasp tunnels poised to trap ants, tripping over underexposed roots) we follow the trail round the beautiful lake. We see birds endemic to this area, a godsend for birders cluthing their lifelists. We see chameleons extend one shakey leg after another, rocking up the branch nearly undetected.. Bright green geckos make us think of the TV commercial where the smart-alec gecko roars up in a car. cute, cute, cute. The herons, fisheagles and the jumping fish keep us scanning and oohing. Then suspended from a branch overhanging the lake is a spider the size of Arnold Shwartzennegger's hand, or perhaps a N.Y. sewer rat. It is classic spider, the granddaddy of spiders. Is it true that spiders encountered and not slain turn up in your bed at night?