June 13, 2004
"Mystery Juice"
by Katherine Wolff

9:00: Lac Ravelobe

Today is wonderful. I am sitting on a log upslope of Lake Ravelobe, looking for crocodiles. I awoke early, before 6:00, blindly reached for my dirty running/field clothes in the pre-dawn shadows, and made my way down the sandy road that stretches away from camp. A cozy fire crackled inside one of the three shacks at the end of the road, and a nervous mother hen herded her chicks off the road as I passed. I didn’t get far on the main road before I saw a flattened hedgehog tenrec. I found a stick, poked and examined the shriveled remnants of the unfortunate creature, contemplating it’s striking similarities to my own pet hedgehog at home. Soon I was off again, past the ANGAP campground, past the little village with stands of lemons and limes, and something Jodie called “wood orange,” a large round fruit bearing tempting resemblence to some member of the citrus family. Upon further examination, however, one soon discovers that this pseudo orange is as dissappointingly hard as a field hockey ball. Blast! Doomed to a diet of rice, rice tea, sugared rice, salted rice, and various items to put on rice to embellish the nonexistant rice flavor. It’s not so bad though; although my stash of Luna bars is dwindling, I constantly remind myself that things could be far worse. For example, I did not expect to have running water at camp, and so the cold shower was and is a delightful surprise, especially on scorching hot afternoons between field surveys. Not far after the village the road curves to expose Lake Ravelobe, an oasis in this strange sandy, arid place. Like an ameoba, curling appendages reaching into the surrounding forest, the lake sprawls over several kilometers. It is a haven for a wide variety of terrestrial and aquatic life – a birdwatcher and fisherman’s paradise. One need only pause for a moment to hear the wet heavy slap of some monster fish leaping out of it’s lacustrine habitat before plummeting back again. Despite the peaceful solitude and cool breezes that invitingly rustle the leaves of large overhanging trees, this lake is forbidden. It is ridden with man-eating crocodiles (Pierrot claims they killed 5 people in one year alone) and is supposedly chock full of the tiny snails that carry schisto – a disease which results in larvae spreading throughout the bloodstream and manifesting itself as full grown worms which then crawl out of every possible oriface. Lovely.
So the lake is a beautiful, damned place, and it never looked more so than it did this morning when I ran by, a supernatural mist enshrouding the surface, so still that it appeared to be a magical solid thing, impermeable even to the first rays of the morning sun, which sliced through the mist and stabbed at my eyes.
After rounding a few more bends I turned around and began to retrace my loping steps. Over the bridge, past the haunted-paradise lake, past the fruit stands. In addition to the pyramidal stacks of lemons and limes, lines of plastic bottles adorn the dusty shelves. Some contain a stew of what is essentially a stringently sour lemon relish that is used sparingly as a condiment. Because the fruit here is often a different color than what we are accustomed to at home (oranges, for example taste far better when they are green, limes when they are yellow, etc….), we optimistically and incorrectly assumed that oranges were included among the citrus items displayed in the roadside stands. So two days ago, after a frustrating three hour transect hike with no sightings, we asked Renary to drive us down to the village. Rolling down the road in the truck bed, we excitedly talked about having oranges for breakfast or lunch, and after dinner to break the rice monotony. When the truck ground to a halt we were immediately swarmed by village children who cheerfully, blatantly identified and greeted us in Malagasy
“Hello white foreigner!”
We smiled and greeted them back and were soon devastated to discover that the produce consisted only of sour lemons and limes – no oranges whatsoever, aside from the wood oranges which were about as appetizing as cannonballs. By this time, amid the swiling disappointment and the confusion of smiling, barefoot children tugging at our pant legs, we became aware that the proprietors of the fruit stands had ceased whatever they had been doing to stand expectantly, waiting for us to make our purchases.
“Well, we have to buy something,” I said, glancing from the unappetizing 2 liter bottles of abhorid lemon goo, to the kindhearted face of an elderly woman in a filthy, tattered apron. I opted for a bottle of pale yellow liquid that appeared to have the color and texture of lemonade. “What is this? Does it have sugar?” She grinned and nodded emphatically (yes, yes, whatever you want). In retrospect I think that if I had asked whether the bottle contained fudge or roasted pheasant she would have had the same reaction. “Great, I’ll take one.” I paid the 5,000 Malagasy francs, but Jodie was insistantly tugging my elbow, informing me that the woman at the adjacent stand had actually been waiting longer to sell us citrus products. Sidestepping to this stand, I noticed that the bottles were a little grimier, the coagulated brown sediment at the bottom more closely ressembling pond sludge.
“Two please,” I conceeded, upon learning that the woman did not have change for my large bills. Indeed, the Malagasy government seems to have made the painful error of producing a disproportionate amount of large and small bills, making for very awkward buisness transactions in markets, bars and restaraunts. We rumbled back to camp, waving back to the children and feeling good for supporting the meager local economy, if a little uncertain about the contents of the three bottles now bulging in my backpack.
At camp Alain, Pierrot, and Renary laughed and chided us for our purchases. Alain unscrewed the cap of one bottle, which emitted a threatening hiss. After sitting in the sun for who knew how many days, the substance had either intentionally or accidentally fermented. Gingerly, he splashed a little into the cap and sipped, as though too much of the drink might cause him to combust spontaneously. The usually stoic, quiet, somber student we know as Alain performed an animated interpretive dance which was far more effective in describing the taste than any words (as one side or the other must always communicate in at best, a second language) could have possibly conveyed.
I pictured the stern nurse at the Duke Travel Clinic who had soberly forewarned me of the dangers involved in consuming anything other than bread in Madagascar. I had violated her primary rule: “Don’t buy street food!” We added a series of tablets – iodine and neutralizers to sterilize the liquid, a chemical process that took a full hour to complete. When dinner was ready I filled my glass half way with the sterilized mystery juice, and added sugar, Fanta, and some flavored Crystal Light powdered drink mix to concoct a delicous lukewarm beverage that tasted like……slightly sour orange Fanta.
I had once again learned the unfailing lesson that seems to always confront and challenge me in this country: Even simple tasks in Madagascar involve unforseen difficulties and complexities. Something as seemingly routine as going to the bank or buying groceries can take an entire day. Maybe the taxi-brousse driver is afraid of vazaha (white foreigners) and refuses to give you a ride, or gas for some inexplicable reason just isn’t for sale, anywhere today. It is a constant and valuable lesson in patience, understanding, and flexibility – a stepping stone along the winding path to culture awareness and sensitivity. No matter the frequency of the lesson, or the exasperation involved, it is exceedingly valuable, and will, I believe, serve me well. Even so, I’ll be damned if I know what to do with two and a half more bottles of lemon-flavored kerosene.