By ANN GERACIMOS, Special to The Washington Post
June 23, 2013
MADAGASCAR — What's this lemur doing in my lap?
Well, not exactly in my lap, but close enough for me to wonder about its next move.
I'm in the open dining area of rustic Camp Amoureux near Madagascar's remote Kirindy dry rain-forest reserve, where I've come to explore the country's flora and fauna. The pesky little creature is poised to grab the leavings of my mango.
He isn't the only greedy one. Lured by the smell of fresh mangoes, a bunch of lemurs have sprung out of the forest during our breakfast hour, giving our jet-lagged bodies a slight shock.
They're aggressive, but not in a threatening way, these furry brown primates with the irresistible bug eyes. A mother with a baby curled around her body swings with the best of them, leaping on and off posts and benches and finally tipping over the wastebasket full of mango leftovers. The creatures quarrel and snarl in a frenzy over the scraps.
I pick up a piece of skin and gingerly hold it out to one, unsure what response I'll get. Do lemurs bite? The animal swiftly reaches over with a thin, leathery-fingered hand and snatches the skin away.
Such intimacy is thrilling, even if animal protectors might protest that getting too close and personal could accustom our visitors to handouts. On the upside, wild animals in our midst make for some terrific photos. And we don't ignore the black-and-white sifaka lemurs in the distance that dance like circus performers around an unusual baobab specimen after which the camp is named: Two of the tree's smooth thick limbs are intertwined, resembling a lover's embrace.
Madagascar boasts more baobab species than anyplace else in the world. The tall trees with the bottle-shaped trunks are known as "the roots of the sky" because their limbs reach heavenward like wavy spokes. Getting to and from Kirindy, we travel along a famous road known as the alley of the baobabs, where numerous trees stand guard like sentinels on parade and where, because of the trees' iron content, the sun's rays turn the trunks red in the dying light at dusk.
Baobabs aren't the only natural phenomena of note in a country where 80 percent or more of the plants and animals are indigenous. Endemic birds and reptiles are plentiful as well. But outside of zoos and research centers, lemurs are found nowhere else in the world. There are dozens of species of different colors, behaviors and sizes, ranging from one ounce to 15 pounds. Most are tree-climbing creatures with sensitive snouts and agile hands and feet. The rarest — and strangest — is the aye-aye, with its rabbity teeth, batlike ears, bushy tail and a long, sharp middle finger.
Realistically, we can't expect to see all the exotic bird and animal species that abound here, but we'll up our chances by spending time in three forested areas known for different native inhabitants. Of the three, Kirindy definitely is the biggest challenge.
Lodging In The Wild
We camp two nights in relative luxury, in tents on platforms with bathrooms open to the woods (two of us find frog visitors in the toilet). The showers work by gravity; cold drinks, including good beer, are possible thanks to solar-generated power. Under these conditions, the meals we get are impressive; cold smoked tuna, spicy zebu — the local humpback cattle — stew and bananas in chocolate sauce.
It's the mid-November heat and humidity that nearly does us in. It's fierce enough to turn some of my tiny prescription pills to dust. With no cooling wind, the sweat pours down and dehydration feels imminent. Nevertheless, we head out in the afternoon and evening with our guides.
A few — very few — lemurs dash about in the forest canopy. A giant jumping rat — a relatively small creature resembling a baby kangaroo — is caught in our van lights as it crosses a road. We see two butterflies mating on a leaf. The birds are colorful, especially the paradise flycatcher, the blue coua and the white-headed vanga.
I'd signed up to visit the fourth-largest island in the world, a mini-continent off Africa's eastern flank, knowing that it's off the mainstream tourist map and desiring shamelessly to go where none of my acquaintances had gone. Everything was arranged in advance by trip organizers Skip and Elizabeth Horner, owners of a Montana-based adventure tour business, who rely on local agencies for vans, drivers and guides to handle domestic transport and hotel reservations. Being a small group, we're flexible and benefit along the way from the gentle, easygoing ways of the Malagasy people.
Lemur love can be a trying sport when there are few good roads and only a single (expensive and not entirely reliable) airline, Air Madagascar. In addition, the country has been under sanctions from such international bodies as the European Union and the United Nations since a 2009 coup put an undemocratically elected president in charge. Elections are planned but keep getting put off. Meanwhile, the economy of one of the world's poorest countries is in some disarray.
We go by van to the town of Morondava, not far from Kirindy, and get a slight break from the heat with a 24-hour stay at an upscale oceanside resort with a pool and a spa.
Then we move farther south on the coast to Tulear (alias Toliara), where we end up having a disappointing two-day delay caused by a last-minute Air Madagascar cancellation. Our itinerary is rejiggered, forcing the cancellation of a boat ride on an inland canal where there had been the possibility of glimpsing the reclusive aye-aye.
It's not a complete waste, however, since in improvising, we visit a handsomely maintained private botanical preserve on Tulear's outskirts. A young guide, giving us an hour-long tour with only two other tourists present, has some fun calling our attention to an innocent-looking green plant known as the mother-in-law plant. "Fatal when eaten," she jokes.
Finally, the transport gods smile on us, and we have a chance to go sightseeing for a day in the capital, Antananarivo (Tana for short), high up in the interior, where cool, pleasant temperatures prevail. It's a hilly, traffic-choked city of more than 2 million people, surrounded by green and brown rice fields.
It's in Tana that we first hear the word "vazaha," the Malagasy word for foreigner, which laughing children call out after us as we make our way through back alleys. Unfortunately, historic buildings such as the Queen's Palace are closed — whether temporarily for repairs or permanently for lack of funds, we aren't sure.
We're eager to escape diesel fumes and crowds even when they include such sights as six live geese quacking away in a basket atop a man's head on the way to market. We head off to two tropical wetlands, one on Madagascar's northeastern edge, called Masoala National Park, the country's largest park, and the other inland, east of Tana. With luck, we'll spot some lemurs in both places.
Hopping from a pontoon boat onto a palm-fringed sandy beach at the serenely remote self-sustaining Masoala Forest Lodge, I feel as if I've reached nirvana. Hang the cliche, this really is where the rain forest meets the sea in a gentle primordial hush. Antongil Bay, outside the lodge, is where humpback whales come from Antarctica each summer to give birth. Empty beaches stretch for miles, and the only traffic on the water is fishermen in pirogues and occasional motorboats bringing fresh supplies and guests.
The terrain is mountainous, the weather mostly dry and sunny, and Masoala's dense green woodland is full of magnificent trees, ferns and vines. It's also favored by red-ruffed lemurs, which we spot on high during our daily walks.
Our group treats the search as a game of hide-and-seek. Between walks, we swim, kayak and paddle upstream on a slow-moving river past plentiful mangroves — the forest primeval. Scores of lichees line the path to the nearest village of Tampolo, less than a half-hour away, where women sit braiding crafts that they'll later offer to sell us, along with black pepper, cinnamon and vanilla — Madagascar staples.
Vakona Forest Lodge, our last stop, lies deep in a misty green valley near Andasibe-Mantadia National Park, an area that's home to the indri. This diurnal lemur is known for its loud, eerie cry, a cross between a shriek and a wail and frightening to the uninitiated. A park guide leads us into the forest, teaching me the indri mating call (a puff of air followed by a kissing sound) as we go.
Eventually, we chance upon a group of large black-and-white indri singing and swinging together in the trees, their song echoing overhead. Known for their prodigious leaping ability, these are the largest and strongest lemurs.
Bushwhacking farther, we discover golden bamboo lemurs — a flash of brown-gold fur — and well-camouflaged mouse and dwarf lemurs.
Yakona — a Malagasy word for the palmlike pandanus plant — has the usual resort amenities and also maintains a small zoo as well as a private island set aside for "ex-pet" lemurs — somewhat domesticated animals that have probably been given up by private owners. They live protected in the wild while putting up with rubbernecking tourists.
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