The scientific vessel Akademik Vernadsky was stationed at the port of Fort Dauphin, now Taulanaru. The expedition participants, mostly botanists, but also zoologists, entrepreneurs, and the author of these lines, at that time a naturalist artist, former ichthyologist, and hydrobiologist, rented several jeeps, because the south-east of Madagascar, as well as most of its territory, was passable only by off-road vehicles at the end of the 20th century. For several days we traveled around the neighborhood, collecting seeds, herbariums and other natural science trophies.
The coastal area around Taulanaru, up to the slopes of the Beampingaratra mountain range, is occupied by a strip of rain forests, or simply jungles, interspersed with plantations of sisal and other tropical crops. The masses of moist, warm air coming from Indonesia dump here the bulk of the precipitation harvested during the long journey over the Indian Ocean. The air is already moving drier across the rest of the island. Therefore, beyond the mountains begins the semi–desert of Andrui (from “rui” – “thorn”, “thorny shrub”), with incredibly interesting vegetation and a very special population. On the second day, we crossed the low mountains along the serpentine and, after visiting the small private Berenti Nature Reserve with an inspiringly diverse landscape before lunch, headed on to the country of the Antandruev.
The name of the tribe, in fact, translates literally as “living among thorns.” This is perhaps the only ethnic group in the world that has perfectly adapted to life surrounded by xerophytic (drought-resistant) vegetation, the obligatory property of which is the presence of all kinds of thorns.
The first Antandrui we saw, the shepherds of Zebu’s herds, were armed with short, thin spears. The dart does not look like a basic necessity in this peaceful area, where the largest land animals are cows, where crocodiles are found (and increasingly rare) only in small rivers, and the largest land predator, the fossa, is the size of a large dachshund. It occurred to me that having a sharp spear in my hands or over my shoulder–that is, within the dimensions of my own body–is aesthetically necessary for an entourage. Identification with the natural environment. Add another thorn to the prickly landscape! No wonder, for example, the painter Fofa Rabearivelo, the singer of the Madagascar paradise, of all the Malagasy people, depicts only Antandruev with spears.
And in recent centuries, with the development of transoceanic trade, several species of cacti from Mesoamerica have been brought here – prickly pear and cereus, and American agaves, including cultivated sisal. These introduced species (species of plants and animals that have been relocated to a new environment for them, beyond the boundaries of their natural range. – “NG”) have mastered the semi-desert, partly even displacing local forms.
By a fateful coincidence, all these migrants from afar also turned out to be completely thorny. And over the many generations of their neighborhood, the Antandrui have not just adapted to them, but organically incorporated them into their household. Sisal provides fibers for yarn, and large agave needles for sewing. The green flatbreads of prickly pear branches, and even more so the sugar–rich and delicate-tasting fruits of all types of cacti, are an important component of the Antandruya diet. The green hedges protecting residential courtyards, gardens and fields of antandrui consist mainly of prickly pear trees.
Plant thorns only seem like frivolous weapons. Cactus barriers around the local villages are an absolutely insurmountable barrier for outsiders. It would be fair to call them fortifications, because at the end of the 19th century, thanks to thorny thickets and plantations, the Antandrui became the only ethnic group of Malagasy who managed to resist the French colonialists for a very long time.
We decided to make a stop and stopped the jeep for a small picnic near a grove of octopus trees with prickly pear undergrowth. A herd of zebu was grazing nearby, and I moved away from my own, hoping to chat with an elderly shepherd who was sitting in the shade of a didierea (succulent plant. – “NG”). The country has been a colony of France for more than half a century, so even in this backwater, you can communicate with Parisians in the language of Gustave Flaubert and Charles Baudelaire, which has been preserved as the second official language along with native Malagasy.
Next to the shepherd, a large female zebu (in other words, a heifer) was melancholically eating a green bush. And suddenly, a literary stamp from old novels came to mind–”what was my amazement!” – when I realized that the cow was chewing nothing more than a large-prickly pear.
The evolution of species is, so to speak, a gradual process. It follows the serious laws established by Charles Robert Darwin, and not the frivolous rules invented by Jean-Baptiste Lamarck.
As a species of cattle that originated in a tropical climate, zebu is partly similar in its properties to a buffalo (massive underbelly; increased interest in puddles and mud), but more so to a camel: fat hump, phlegm, the ability to endure prolonged hunger and thirst. However, in the south of Madagascar, this breed appeared only a few centuries ago, it had practically no time to adapt to local peculiarities. Therefore, she inevitably had certain problems related to the imperfection of the oral apparatus.
First of all, unlike a camel, zebu cannot spit. Later, whenever I watched a bull in a team trying to pull a stuck cart out of a pothole, and the owner helped him only with a whip, I thought I could read in the animal’s eyes regret that his lips were not able to gather into a tube in order to shower the owner with a tub of angry saliva. By the way, one of my favorite Malagasy proverbs says: “If beating taught reason, bulls would be the smartest.” And secondly, and this is the main thing – unlike a camel, eating thorns threatens a zebra with a painful death.
“This can’t be happening,” I told the shepherd honestly. The old man perked up and nodded in agreement.
–Yes,– he said gravely, after an effective pause. – Zebu really can’t eat thorns. And antandrui can’t live among thorns!
This reaction really puzzled me. The logic seemed to be ironclad. What is impossible can never be. The weak point of this syllogism was one thing: a desperate discrepancy with reality. In front of me stood a cow, non-stop eating prickly pear tortillas, covered with impressive, bloodthirsty thorns, clearly visible even from afar. And next to her sat a man whose whole life had been spent in the midst of multiple clusters of such thorns.
On reflection, I assumed that there must be some kind of secret here, the disclosure of which would reconcile the inexorable logic of reflection with an equally inexorable reality.
“What’s the answer?” – I gave up.
“Fire!” The old man hesitated again and replied.
I looked at the prickly pear again. Small handfuls of ash hung on the bush in places, and traces of burnt grass could be seen under it. Everything became clear.
Low–heat treatment, using armfuls of dried grass piled under a cactus, does not destroy the thorns entirely – only the sharp tips burn. The remaining awns, softened like burnt matches, are no more dangerous to zebu’s delicate palate and lips than ordinary small twigs.
“Yeah, I thought, probably the antandrui “can’t live in thorns” just like zebu can’t eat thorns. This is, apparently, an established metaphor for the Antandruian lifestyle full of tricks. Something like the Malagasy koan.” I turned to the shepherd, waiting for an explanation of his paradoxical statement.
But he was already preoccupied with his own problems. Anxiously whipping the cow with a rod, he began to direct the herd, shouting, into the thick of the octopus trees.
