Andasibe-Mantadia National Park, Madagascar

It was an easy three-hour drive from Antananarivo to reach Andasibe-Mantadia National Park, and by now, I’d learned that when Madagascar offers you a paved road, you take it gladly. Once I arrived, I met up with my guide since I was not permitted in the park without one. He was friendly, sharp-eyed, and clearly someone who knew how to spot things I would otherwise walk past. With him leading the way, I set off on foot through this vast, green kingdom, searching for lemurs, frogs, birds, and whatever else might reveal itself.

The park is actually split into two: the more accessible Analamazaotra Reserve (known locally as Andasibe) and the larger, more rugged Mantadia National Park, about 12mi (20km) to the north. Originally part of one great continuous rainforest, logging and deforestation created the separation. Analamazaotra was full of sounds: rustling leaves, birdsong, and the haunting, echoing call of the Indri, which I was lucky enough to spot early on, lounging in a tree like a black-and-white yoga master. This smaller reserve is home to nine lemur species. I managed to see a few of them: the wide-eyed brown lemur, the shy lesser bamboo lemur, and, later that night, with a torch in hand, three of the nocturnal residents: the rufous mouse, greater dwarf, and eastern woolly lemurs.

Mantadia, by contrast, is wild and hilly. The trails are tougher, less defined, and I felt like I was walking through a deeper, older part of the forest. The vegetation here once covered all of Madagascar, but now only about 25% remains. As the guide led me quietly through the trees, he suddenly paused, whispered, and pointed upwards. A diademed sifaka sat perfectly still in the upper branches, its golden-white fur glowing in a shaft of sunlight. A little further along, to my delight, I caught a glimpse of a black-and-white ruffed lemur, a rare treat and one not found in Analamazaotra. The greater park is wonderfully rich, home to 11 lemur species, including elusive ones like the aye-aye, Goodman’s mouse lemur, sportive lemur, and dwarf lemur.

Down on the ground, I listened to the chorus of frogs. They seemed to be everywhere. One of the brightest was the Baron’s mantella, with vivid green, orange, yellow and black patterns. My guide then pointed out a Parson’s chameleon, nearly the length of my forearm, and the miniature nose-horned chameleon, which, as the name suggests, has a sharply pointed snout, but the species is so tiny, barely 4in (11cm), I never would have spotted it without help. 

Overhead, birds flitted through the canopy. There are more than 100 species in the park, including the Madagascar green sunbird, its shimmering plumage earning it the nickname “jewel of the forest”, the dainty yellow-and-black wagtail, easily recognised by its constantly wagging tail, and the nocturnal long-eared owl, its mottled brown feathers and ear tufts blending perfectly into the trees.

Even the plant life was staggering. Towering tree ferns, thick ropes of lianas, and a myriad of different versions of orchids clung to every available surface. Some were no bigger than my thumbnail; others dangled like chandeliers in the dim understorey. The forest was humid and damp, filled with rare woods like the Madagascar Rosewood and black ebony trees. 

After seeing several reserves and national parks, I’m still surprised by the sheer volume of wildlife, and not just the quantity but the variety within the same groups. I’ve started keeping a list of the different lemur species I’ve encountered to keep track. Who knew there could be so many versions of big eyes, long tails, and curious stares?