MADAGASCAR - BEN HArrison, travel consultant - africa & indian ocean

The three hour drive from Antananarivo (Tana) down to Andasibe National Park was a gentle introduction to Madagascar. The open plateau with its patchwork of rice fields narrowed to a winding river valley where industrious souls would bring sheets and clothes from Tana's wealthy to be washed and air dried on the river banks. The road passed through small Merina villages with their characteristic two story earth and brick houses then dropped steeply off the edge of the plateau as we descended toward the park.

That evening a night walk around the lodge revealed the smallest of all lemurs, the mouse lemur as well as a host of chameleons and the astonishingly well camouflaged leaf tailed gecko. My head was already swimming with all the new species I had to digest, when, the following morning, the sublime became the ridiculous. A three hour walk in the Analamazaotra reserve revealed a further four species of lemur including the stunning diademed sifaka and the largest of all lemurs, the Indri. The haunting call of the Indri carries for several kilometres through the thick canopy. It sent shivers down my spine each and every time I heard it.

Where Andasibe excelled in its diurnal variety, the Amber Mountains in Madagascar's far North came alive at night with an astonishing array of geckos, chameleons and frogs as well as a host of millipedes, moths and spiders that seemed to lurk on every log and branch. For all the lemurs and incredible species of bird I saw, it was the nocturnal protagonists that surprised and delighted me the most from this region. After a couple of days to assimilate what I'd seen, spent on the picture perfect, powder white beaches of Tsarbanjina Island, it was time to head south to the less explored South of the island.

The road to Antananarivo from the frontier town of Fort Dauphin in Madagascar's luxuriant South East, was built by the French over half a century ago and has seen precious little maintenance since. The road however, is no challenge for a reasonable four wheel drive in capable hands and we set out North West over the spine of mountains that stretches almost 1000 miles to the North. In the lee of these mountains, the landscape quickly changes to a dry, dusty environment populated by endemic spiny forest. Driving through the iconic octopus trees, I was unexpectedly introduced to one of Madagascar's serious ecological issues as the indigenous forest was swiftly replaced by a plantation of sisal. Vast tracts had been cleared during the French colonisation and much of it now lay overgrown and redundant. Simon, my guide, advised me that the camp was located at the northern edge of this plantation. Over an hour later, we had still not arrived! This plantation alone covered over 30,000 hectares.

As we neared camp, the tall sisal stems cut a striking image against the setting sun, however an exaggerated sense of sentimentality over the, now lost, swathes of primary forest tempered my photographic instincts and we pressed on to Mandrare River Camp. A cold towel and even colder Three Horses Beer swiftly loosened the accumulated knots of a bumpy but eye opening drive.

I awoke to an ethereal sunrise over the Mandrare River as a weak sun desperately tried to force its way through the early morning mist. Our morning began with a walk in the sacred gallery forest on the opposite bank. No bridges for miles in either direction meant shoes off, trousers rolled up, wet knees and an ever widening grin plastered across my face. Within minutes of climbing up the opposite bank, the canopy of this otherwise calm, other worldly riverine forest erupted with a cacophonous din as one ring tailed lemur announced our presence to the rest of the group who all swiftly followed suit. We spent about half an hour following the group around, admiring their aerial prowess as they, with nothing more than a barely audible rustle, would spirit themselves from one tree to the next. We narrowly avoided a second shower of the morning as one ring tail took particular offence to our presence in the sacred forest. I had been advised by my guide that it was considered fady (taboo) by the local Antandroy people to relieve oneself in the forest. Clearly no one had told the lemurs...

The following morning my wake up call took the form of singing which carried wistfully over the river from a village hidden somewhere on the far bank. One or two villagers had already made it down to the river bank to start planting their annual crop of sweet potatoes in the freshly exposed sands of the dry season. After an inconceivably generous and varied breakfast (given our remote location), we ventured a little upstream, again rolling up our trousers and into the spiny forest (also sacred). Among the octopus trees were secreted the tombs of notable members of the Antandroy. Elders would have saved all their lives for their tomb, their wealth illustrated by the number of zebu (local cattle) that they had amassed. The tombs were covered in rocks and the occasional zebu skull and the sides decorated with images representing scenes from, or characteristics of the occupant's life.

We ventured forth in search of that most loveable of lemurs, the Verreaux Sifaka, which is so often seen in documentaries leaping sideways through clearings in the forest. We sent our local guide one way, his whistle would hopefully alert us to the location of said sifakas, while Simon and I ventured in the opposite direction. The tiny leaves of the octopus trees offered no shade from the ever warming sun. We saw love birds, parrots and paradise flycatchers as well as species of bird completely alien to anything I'd ever heard of, such as vangas and couas. My weary leg dislodged a loose rock revealing a pair of scorpions. Their large claws and tiny stingers suggested they were not overly dangerous but nevertheless I opted for a zoom lens rather than a macro shot.

Still no whistle came. I was beginning to think my lemur luck had run out, when Simon, calm as you like, said he could see a couple of sifakas. A couple turned out to be a small family party of five and we spent at least half an hour quietly observing them. They were not at all bothered by our presence as they fed and occasionally hopped nonchalantly from one thorny octopus tree to the next. Simon explained that in their usual habitat they have no need to come to ground and 'dance' from tree to tree and this was only really a feature in areas where trees had been cleared and where they had become habituated to tourists and did not see us a threat.

After an afternoon spent trimming down my hundreds of photos and digesting an unfeasibly excellent lunch, we set off for another incredibly enjoyable night walk. En route we drove through several villages, in one of which, Simon advised me, it is considered fady to eat chickens. The concept of fady, along with their worship of their ancestors is integral to the culture of many of the tribes of Madagascar and manifests itself in numerous different forms. The Antandroy in this area do not see many tourists and as we drove along, excited squeals of 'Vazaha' (foreigner) emanated from children as they ran to hide between their mother's legs. Initial shyness was immediately dispelled after the old trick of showing them a photo of themselves. Children suddenly emerged from every house to see the vazaha and it was with regret that I left them to continue our walk. My final evening in the area revealed the fabulously named sportive lemur nestling in the fork of a larger octopus tree and proved a fitting final image of my time around the Mandrare River.

After a final two nights down at the beautiful Manafiafy Beach Lodge, my lemur count had peaked at 14 species (there are over 100 including many yet to be named) and more reptiles and amphibians than I thought possible. As I looked along the shore to the flotilla of pirogues racing to come ashore and sell their overnight catch at the market on the beach, it became clear to me that Madagascar is as much about its people as its wildlife, especially in this less explored corner of the island. Its wildlife is diminishing however and evidence of the slash and burn that is so rapidly devastating these forest havens of endemism is readily visible wherever you go. New species are being discovered on an almost daily basis. I wondered how many per day were also being lost unnoticed.

The Malagasy that I met understand that little can be done about what has already happened but they are beginning to realise the unique importance of what they possess and prefer to focus on how to protect it. I started to think that I probably should have taken that photo of the sunset over the sisal plantation after all.

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