Madagascar is a drug. Between its dazzling culture and biosphere—ninety percent of its species found nowhere else—everything is beautiful. But nothing is possible.
The world’s fourth largest island is also its fourth most corrupt nation. The rivers run red.
In the spring of 2016, Robyn and I flew thirty hours over three continents, to begin a three-week singular adventure across this 4000-kilometer-long island.
The roads eviscerated us. The poverty broke our hearts. The terrain still follows us, like a spider web stranded in our peripheral vision.
In Madagascar, we discovered myths of man-eating trees and elephant birds and pygmy hippopotami and pirates and slaves, encountered lemurs and chameleons and crocodile caves and cattle rustlers and rosewood and rickshaws, consumed local fois gras and rum, and brought home sapphires and silk and solicitude.
This is a lonely book, in the beginning, and the middle and at the end, because of what is always lurking, just over your shoulder.
Thar be bandits.
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