CAN CAN CAN (PART ONE of the enthralling adventures of Kerry and Katie)

This story will be narrated by NONE OTHER THAN…. Morgan Freeman! Hooray!

One Friday afternoon, Katie and Kerry were strolling down the street in Maroantsetra, when SUDDENLY….. a thought occurred to the crazier of the two. “GASP”, said Kerry.  “I have an idea. We should bike to Mananara.” Katie, being the agreeable and only slightly less-crazy person that she is…. And knowing that Mananara is a mere 75 miles (120 km) south on the worst national TRAIL in the country… spotted with no fewer than 25 decaying, decrepit excuses for bridges, not to mention countless sand pits, bamboo bio-rafting ferries, and gaping, car-swallowing holes…. Promptly… agreed. 

The crack-headed couple agreed to depart at 4 am the following morning. They also agreed that there would be no need to talk until at least 7 am. So the plan was consummated, and IN FACT, the first words were not exchanged until hours in, when contemplating a GIANT, GAPING hole in the road into which a person with good eyes could see the fiery core of the earth. It was here that the “sometimes-integrated-Maroantsetra-bike-gang” encountered its first friend… a nice young man so desperate for a traveling companion that he forged the language barrier and asked two RANDOM WHITE GIRLS if he could share in the adventure.  YES.

Well, shortly after the GAPING HOLE OF DOOM, and after the first of many harrowing, slightly out of control, downhill descents, the “sometimes-integrated-Maroantsetra-bike-gang” could no longer claim to be such. Its newest member was tragically left behind with his tire flat and his ego deflated. He would not be the last to fall.

Later, in a STUNNING display of confidence and athleticism, Katie took on the first of many disintegrating “bridge-like structures” and while yelling “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t”, plunged painfully into the wooden cracks. Deciding that the fault of the incident lay with a confidence issue, the theme of the trip hence forth became “CAN CAN CAN” and the pair continued courageously on into the great beyond where there were fewer and fewer signs of civilization and a significant increase in mud and peril.

Arriving in the small village of Anandrivola, our beloved heroes came upon a crowd of former-raft-captains swimming in the river around a sunken taxi truck and attempting to extricate it by roping a single floatie to its roof (perhaps the least effective place to attach a floatation device considering that the roof of the car was the only part above the water). Meanwhile, a second, not-to-be-discouraged taxi truck was attempting to board the bamboo-stick-raft off of which the first had just fallen.  SOLID PLAN.

Katie and Kerry quickly removed themselves from the impending disaster and climbed across yet another perilous bridge requiring serious gymnastical skills. (Imagine Morgan Freeman pronouncing the word gymnastical).  It was at this point in their journey that the road actually became WORSE, if such a thing is conceivable, and began to wind through the mountains. The boulder-field which was formerly a road/trail, blew out both travelers brakes within an hour and left the two screaming down the hills of DOOM in terror. Nevertheless, in a perpetual state of unchecked OPTIMISM, the two were unfazed by the likelihood of their imminent deaths and continued to yell “CAN CAN CAN” ! UNTIL…. With a final yelp, Katie suddenly reached a point where she couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t, and gracefully CRASHED into the bushes in a mangled union of bikes, rocks, and legs. 

It was only shortly thereafter, in the heat of the afternoon, that their perpetual state of OPTIMISM started to falter briefly and the pair decided that they HATED rocks of all types and varieties. And also hills. And also small children who scream “SALUT VAZAHA” (which means “I HATE YOU, SAY HELLO TO ME!” in Malagasy). 

JUST THEN, by the grace of GOD… or whoever… the weary couple stumbled upon a slice of heaven…. A tiny little rice shack in a dusty little town full of warm coke and chicken sauce. Then followed a period know as the “GOOD TIMES” when their stomachs were full and Mananara seemed too close to be true… a mere 60 km left! 

BUT… just when everything seemed to be going swimmingly, the travelers reached the dreaded BRIDGE TROLLS of “insert name of small unknown village” where a group of swaggering, underemployed teenagers promptly demanded all of their money in exchange for passage across their rickety, shameful excuse for a bridge. By the time the couple reached the next ferry crossing, and a helpful stranger informed them that “there was no possibility of reaching Mananara that evening”, the two rapidly entered a period known as the “DARK TIMES”. 

The sweaty, mud-splattered, brake-less, companions reached the point of the day called “DUSK” and launched themselves down yet another hill which unfortunately ended in one of those wooden bridge-like things. Kerry began in the traditional way by confidently screaming “CAN CAN CAN” until the point at which her bike wavered and she adopted the CAN’T CAN’T CAN’T frame of mind. Moments before crashing VIOLENTLY into the wooden planks, she yelled “I’m DEAD, I’m DEAD, I’m DEAD” and shoes, bikes, and limbs all found their own paths to destruction. BUT, the UNDAUNTED travelers sent a drunken man into the river to get the lost accessories and continued valiantly on their way. 

The co-travelers now forged on in the darkness, intermittently and frustratingly falling into pockets of quick sand and wondering if the existence of Mananara had been a LIE all along. JUST THEN, our story’s beloved heroes stumbled upon a man who announced that Mananara was no more than ONE kilometer away. Katie restrained Kerry from attempting to kiss the man and the two picked up a perky, re-energized pace.  FINALLY, 16 hours from the birth of the trip, after 120 kilometers, 260,000 SALUT VAZAHA’s, 1000 decrepit bridges, at least that many falls, the bloody, weary, smelly, muddy mess of human beings reached the final river, where they WERE NOT ripped off by the last ferry manchild and happily climbed over the last little rise into Narnia (aka MANANARA).