Go Magazine

Tens of millions of years ago, Madagascar tore away from the African continent with the break-up of Gondwanaland and nature evolved undisturbed by any outside influences. Today, it’s one of the most biodiverse places on the planet. Esma le Roux and photographer Dawie Verwey explore the Red Island. Deep in the cool kloof, trees of different height and girth are clustered together.Sunlight falls on the treetops. Wiry creepers and strangler figs twist and turn from stem to branch. Under the dark-green leaf canopy, colourful birds flap, yellow lemur eyes peer at you and giant chameleons wink shyly. The orchids, coffee trees and mulberries grow wild. Not even the mosquitoes buzzing around my ankles can distract me from the scene. It was quite a mission to get here, the Montagne d’Ambre Park in the north of Madagascar, but there are few things that top standing at the top of a waterfall in a real rain forest. “Travelling in Madagascar is not for everybody,” I read beforehand on one of Madagascar’s embassy websites. “If you insist on exact schedules, well-planned itineraries and plush accommodation, this country is not for you.” To visit some countries, such as Cameroon, Cambodia, Gabon and Madagascar, if you insist on booking everything in advance you might have to go on a very expensive adventure holiday package. But the local people get from A to B. And so can you. It takes a whole lot longer and is a bit uncomfortable, but you experience so much more of the country and its people. Decide for yourself if you’re up to it…

Ankify
“In Madagascar you need a fixer,” says the photographer Dawie Verwey. The sun is already high in the sky. We sit in the red dust on a car tyre in the harbour of the village Ankify and drink cold Coke so we won’t die of dehydration. In the book Long Way Round, actor Ewan McGregor and co-author Charley Boorman made sure they had a fixer in every country they passed through on their motorbikes – someone who spoke their language and to help them out when things went wrong. Our plan is to visit the Ankarana Nature Reserve and Montagne d’Ambre Park, and to fly from the harbour town Diégo-Suarez on the north coast to Antananarivo. Mohamed Bakary is our fixer. He was our captain on the boat Salama Djema, on which we sailed in the first week of our journey in Madagascar (go! #8, page 36). He will get us to Ankarana. And after that we’re on our own. We’re facing a field where army trucks, small lorries and old Peugeots are parked. Tiny huts line the field, where you can buy doughnuts, French loaves, cooldrinks and cellphone airtime. An old Peugeot 404 station wagon comes rattling along. Our luggage – two stuffed backpacks, two cameras, a tripod, a daypack, a waterproof camera case and a giant pineapple – is loaded in the boot. After about half-an-hour’s drive, we stop at the village Ambanja at a house. “This is my very good friend,” Mohamed says. “He will get you to Ankarana.” We say goodbye to Mohamed and we watch as he walks away, talking on his cellphone, until he finally disappears among the people, cars and palm trees. His very good friend has an open, friendly face. “Parlez-vous anglais?” Dawie tries. “Petit, petit,” he shows with a small gap between his thumb and forefinger. When you’re travelling in the unknown, you easily place your trust in strangers (for all we know Mohamed’s friend could be trading in human organs). Our man’s name is Romeo. On Romeo’s advice we drive to the village Ambilobe, about 100 km to the north, to buy supplies – sardines, baguettes and doughnuts. We drink sweet white yoghurt from small glasses. I wonder if this is the president’s yoghurt. Marc Ravalomanana, Madagascar’s president, is the richest man in the country. As a child he delivered yoghurt on his bicycle. Today, his company, Tiko, sells bottled water, cheese and, of course, yoghurt, among other things. This dairy magnate started climbing the political ladder as mayor of Antananarivo, and since 2002 he and the TIM Party (an acronym for “I love Madagascar”) have ruled the country.

Ankarana Nature Reserve 1 “
Ask for Goulam or Laurent as soon as you get to Ankarana,” Mohamed said. On a bare, red piece of earth stands a lone little brick building and a few huts: Goulam Lodge. Goulam isn’t here. There are two “flush” toilets and showers, but you must still use a bucket to draw water. There are a few tables under trees. I drop my backpack on the wooden floor of my bungalow and crawl under the mosquito net. It’s hot. In her book Muddling through in Madagascar, the Irish travel writer Dervla Murphy quotes a Reverend William Ellis of the London Missionary Society, who said: “Often when setting out on a journey, they take with them a small portion of their native earth, on which they often gaze when absent, and invoke their god that they may be permitted to return to restore it to the place from which it was taken.” In-between the planks on the floor I see reddish-brown soil. This dust clings to everything. Even my nails are turning reddish-brown. The entire island used to be covered in forest. Slash-and-burn farming has, however, left red wounds everywhere, hence the name Red Island. The survival of many endemic species, such as the lemur, is threatened by a shrinking natural habitat. Since 1985 several local and international organisations have stepped in to protect the island’s unique plant and animal species. It’s the kind of place in which the movie Bio-Dome could have been set. The Ankarana Nature Reserve includes the Ankarana limestone massif. Under this body of limestone are caves and canyons where crocodiles and bats hide, and old Antakarana kings rest eternally. “Good afternoon, good afternoon,” Goulam Eugene says as he arrives, much later. He’s a friendly guy who has worked with a few overseas film crews. This guide and nature lover taught himself English because he wanted to know what James Brown was singing about. He is fixer number two. By 6.30 the next morning, the cicadas are already screaming their endless chant. A Swiss couple and their driver in a 4x4 turn into Goulam Lodge’s gate.  Mercifully, we can get a lift with them. If you don’t have your own vehicle, you have to walk the 2 km to the park’s entrance. Drenched in sweat, we get out of the bakkie. Goulam shows us a green day gecko on the branch of a cashew nut tree.  A narrow dirt road twists through the bush past three ruins. This is the real entrance to the park. “It was planned to be an information centre, but the money leaked from someone’s pocket,” Goulam explains. We walk along a ridge, and all around us it looks like the Bushveld in winter. Quickly, our shoes turn reddish brown. A few African palm swifts swoop over the treetops. Goulam has super-sharp eyes and ears. He hears the birds before we’ve even seen the tree. The dusty track winds its way among rows of thin white stems and drops down into a wide riverbed strewn with large rocks, and up again into a forest on the stony limestone floor. The roots of the trees and plants reach deep down among the stones in search of water, and the baobabs vainly push their long fingers into the blue sky. This type of bush is called a “dry forest”. Although it’s a subtropical region, there are still long dry spells. Goulam breaks open one of the baobab’s fruit pods. The light orange flesh is full of vitamin C and tastes like sherbet. “Shh, ” he whispers suddenly and points to a hollow in a tree. Two yellow eyes peer out.  I ask whether it’s the tiny mouse lemur. “No, it’s an ordinary sportif lemur. Their bodies are supple and they can fit into very small spaces,” Goulam says. “The lemurs, they sleep and eat and sleep and eat.” As the path twists higher up, the forest turns a bit greener and cooler. An African paradise flycatcher with its long tail hops from branch to branch ahead of us.  In the top of the leafy canopy, two greater vasa parrots whistle at each other. We turn left at a sign reading “Tsingy Rary” to a small wooden deck that looks out over a rugby-field-sized plain of grey limestone towers between 1 and 2m deep. They are called tsingy. “Fantastisch!” the Swiss man exclaims. The pointy rock formations were formed as sulphur-rich rains poured down for centuries and minerals remained to form the spires. If your foot slips here, you could be skewered like a sosatie. Back at the camp everyone drinks two ice-cold Cokes. We gobble up three tins of sardines. You can’t escape the heat anywhere. It’s a pity you can’t really swim in the park’s rivers. In the dry season there’s no water and in the rainy season the streams would wash you away. At least there’s a shower – or two buckets, rather – to wash with. The water is warm, and within a minute or two you’re dry again. We hide from the sun in our bungalows. After an afternoon nap, my mattress is soaked with sweat. I cut open a giant pineapple and take a big bite. Later in the evening we take the same path to the bush in darkness. Goulam’s weak torch throws a fuzzy triangle of light. “Many of the geckos and chameleons hide from predators during the day time, that’s why it’s easier to see them at night,” Goulam says. We see a small, bright green Petter’s chameleon, a leaf-tailed gecko and the smallest lemur in the world, a mouse lemur. Two shiny eyes peer at us from the undergrowth. It’s a fosa. This puma-like animal, roughly the size of a slightly overweight house cat, is the island’s biggest predator and also the lemur’s greatest enemy. “You’re really lucky; usually they run away,” says Goulam, a bit surprised himself. Later, by the light of an oil lamp, Goulam puts Cokes and Three Horses beers on our table. “Sometimes I’m a guide and sometimes I’m a barman. Just like a chameleon.”

Ankarana Nature Reserve 2
In front of us, through the trees, it looks like someone scooped out a big chunk of limestone. On the other side of the tiny kloof gapes the mouth of the grotte des chauves-souris, or bat cave. Way below, other visitors dwarfed by the chasm are slowly climbing the steep steps we have to descend. We clamber a good 300 m down a slope and then up another slope to the mouth of the cave. Sweat pours down my legs. A sweet-sour smell hangs in the air… bats. Out of respect for the Ankarana forefathers you’re not allowed to enter the caves with a hat on, and if any of your ancestors were involved in battles with the Antankarana, it’s best you stay away. We clamber over boulders, deeper down the cave’s throat. The smell becomes unbearable and the shrill squeaking of the bats sounds like a cicada about to explode. It feels as if the entire cave is closing in on me. I turn around, run to the mouth of the cave and take a deep breath. If you’re the guy who pours more water on the hot rocks in the sauna and then starts doing push-ups, Ankarana Nature Reserve is the place for you. (It didn’t help much that we were visiting just before the rainy season.) In terms of uniqueness, this reserve is in the same league as the Galapagos Islands. At first glance, it looks like the Lowveld, but if you look carefully, it’s full of plants, birds, lemurs, chameleons, butterflies and interesting limestone formations that you’d find nowhere else. You might have spotted these in a picture book as a child, but now you can touch the rough little body of a leaf-tailed gecko yourself. Unfortunately, you can’t appreciate this kind of fauna and flora from a car; you have to make the effort.

Montagne D’Ambre Nature Reserve
After drinking a beer on the patio of the Arcade Hotel, I return to my room. For the first time, I notice the packet of condoms on the bedside table. What kind of hotel is this? They said they were fully booked, actually, but they’d be able to help us… At reception I give a lame excuse and say I’m going to look for other accommodation. “No problem; I understand,” says the receptionist with a wink. What the…? We arrived in Diégo-Suarez this afternoon. It’s even further north than Antakarana. The plan is to leave for the Montagne d’Ambre Park with Goulam tomorrow morning. He’ll take us there and will take care of everything – food, transport, guide and fees. He says we’ll sleep in the park under blankets tonight. We don’t believe him. “We don’t know if it’s the truth or just a legend,” Goulam says the next morning in the car, talking about the story of the Republic of Libertalia. We have a view of the Baie des Français. In the middle of the bay a giant sugarloaf rock formation rises from the water. The story goes that a character called Captain Mission, a kind of Robin Hood of the sea, and an excommunicated priest, Father Caraccioli, founded the pirate republic of Libertalia here in the 17th century. Apparently they started building a Utopia by the sea along with 300 Comorans, slaves from Africa and European pirates. Before long, the local Malagasies murdered all the Libertalians. No proof of this liberal republic’s existence has ever been found, and historians think the creator of the character Robinson Crusoe, Daniel Defoe, made up the story. Nevertheless, it’s material for a good movie – Pirates of the Caribbean with a touch of Braveheart. “Stop, stop!” Goulam suddenly exclaims. “Look.” He points to a panther chameleon sitting on a branch and restlessly rolling its eyes, as if it’s thinking, “How did they spot me from a moving car?” I wonder too. Goulam shows us a dark-brown birthmark on his arm. “It’s my chameleon detector,” he jokes. Either there are hundreds of chameleons (that’s how he sees them so easily), or he “planted” them here the previous day… or his “chameleon detector” really works. Half of the world’s chameleon species occur in Madagascar, from the largest, the Parson chameleon, to the tiny dwarf chameleon. Goulam says the local people believe chameleons bring ill fortune. “Even my own mother thinks I’m crazy to be working with chameleons.” We pass through Joffreville, which used to be a French army base. Ramshackle, dirty white cottages, some with a few pieces of broekie lace hanging from the roofs, line the gravel road. The gardens are overgrown with pink and orange bougainvillea and mango trees. The road winds its way uphill to the Montagne d’Ambre Park, which perches on the top of a volcano like a green beanie. In the park, the dark green trees tower around us. The plants grow on top of one another and the red clay soil is wet and slippery. Montagne d’Ambre has its own microclimate. Up here, about 3 500 mm of rain falls each year, and it’s usually 10ºC cooler than down in Diégo-Suarez. The gîte étape, the French word for mountain hut, where we’re sleeping tonight, stands quietly and alone in a clearing among the lush green undergrowth. It looks like a mountain hut somewhere in the Knysna woods kitted out with bunk beds, sheets, blankets, flush toilets, hot showers, electricity, a communal kitchen and a nice lounge with a TV and a fireplace. Next door is a beautiful camp site under a clump of South American pines. We take a tiny bush path behind the hut. Huge bird’s nest ferns perch on mossy boughs like baby chairs hooked onto Spur tables. Strangler figs wind their roots around some of the trees. The host and the strangler figs compete for water and light, and ultimately the host rots. Above your head you see only tiny shards of blue sky through the disorderly leaf canopy. About 200 m further on the path comes to a stop at a cliff of dark volcanic rock. The long, thin Cascade Sacrée (holy waterfall) streams down before us. A light misty rain hangs in the air. It smells green and wet. The local people believe the spirits that live in the surrounding area, came here to shelter when the natural bush was hacked away. Around the tiny platform lie empty bottles and coins; offerings. We walk on and rise higher and higher to a lookout point over the Petit Lac (small lake). You can walk down to the milky, turquoise lake. Many, many years ago, volcanic explosions formed a string of craters and funnels around the Amber Mountain. There are five crater lakes in this lake. Back at the car we take our leave from Goulam. Our fixer and friend. At the hut I put on long trousers and a jacket for the first time. We sit on the benches in the camp site and eat the mangoes and sardines. Before us a reddish-brown ring-tailed mongoose nibbles on a chicken bone it found in the rubbish bin. There are just the three of us here. The forest buzzes, chimes, clicks and sings with frog and bird sounds. We decide to see if we can find some of them. It’s pitch dark except for my weak headlight. I see a leaf pretending to be a chameleon. Dawie hears something scurry twice. We look the trees up and down, but eventually walk home disappointed. We haven’t seen anything, and once more we realise how good Goulam’s eye is. The lights in the hut don’t work. There is no hot water. Somewhere a frog choir chimes. You don’t want to be anywhere else.

Antsiranana (Diégo-Suarez)
Back in Diégo-Suarez I pull on my I love New York T-shirt for the third day in a row. It doesn’t really help to put on clean clothes, because you’re drenched in sweat within a few minutes anyway. I collapse on my bed and sleep the day away. This morning we got up at 4.30 am to hike to the Antomboka Falls (8 km) and back to Joffreville (4 km) to get a taxi to Diégo-Suarez. Now, Diégo-Suarez won’t make the list of 1 000 places to see before you die. It looks like a slightly neglected Mossel Bay, but it’s nice to walk around this harbour village, where the French influence is still evident. It was named after a Portuguese seafarer and slave trader who landed here in 1543. The town is commonly known as Diégo-Suarez, or simply Diégo, although the name was changed to Antsiranana in 1975. On the pavements women sit and fry bananas and slices of sweet potatoes on anthracite stoves. Families pack out tables and chairs and eat supper outside. A cute, bright yellow Renault 4 taxi rumbles past. The street Rue Richelieu runs by high above the sea. Here is the ruin of Diégo’s first hotel. The Marine Hotel was hit by a cyclone, and nowadays the only guests are a few chickens rooting through the rubbish. On the foyer floor you still see pieces of black and white tiles. Guests would have been welcomed with French champagne. Up the stairs are huge en suite rooms. Through large holes, where white Venetian blinds should have hung, we can see the wind whipping up white horses on the sea. Next to the crumbling hotel is the Music Place garden. In the middle of the dry little garden stands a tiny summer house, which looks like the kind of place Edith Piaf might have sung love songs.

A bit of Red Island
In Madagascar how do you know your plane is here? It’s the only one that lands.  We struggle under the weight of our luggage to the departures counter at Diégo’s airport. Your lunch (a tuna sandwich) and a voucher for a drink in the waiting room’s bar are shoved in your hand along with your boarding pass.  “I remember you,” the air hostess waves us through without even looking at our passes.  You can sit anywhere on the plane. I make for a window seat.
The plane takes off. Below me the bumps and furrows of the Red Island slide by until you see only blue sea. Back to the familiar.
At home I soak my white T-shirts in Vanish for days, but I can’t get the red stains out. I can’t get Madagascar’s red soil from my clothes … or its beauty from my mind.

From go! March 2007