Kirindy National Park, Madagascar

After lounging in Morondava, sipping on a fresh fruit beverage, contemplating the fantastic Avenue of Baobabs I’d recently visited, I hopped in a jeep and braced myself for what would be a bone-rattling ride to Kirindy Matea National Park. I lurched along a dusty road, where speed was determined by the size of the potholes and mood of the suspension. As I bounced around in the vehicle for several hours, I wondered why I didn’t take the much shorter and smoother coastal speedboat route.

Kirindy is a park of extremes. Tucked along Madagascar’s southwestern coast, it’s a patchwork of spiny forest, coastal mangroves, grassy dunes, and quiet lakes. From December to February, the air turns hot and heavy, often reaching 104°F (40°C). Rain arrives in short, sudden bursts, and the forest responds like a coiled spring; everything turns lush and green.

However, come March, things shift, and a long, dry season sets in, lasting through to November. As the heat eases, the trees drop their leaves, and much of the landscape turns brown. Activity slows. Smaller mammals and reptiles enter a short-term state of hibernation, known as torpor, to conserve energy, waiting for the return of moisture. Even the fat-tailed dwarf lemurs tuck themselves away. Incidentally, they are the only lemurs to do so.

Knowing that I was here during the dry season, the stark, skeletal branches and dry air didn’t come as a surprise. What I hadn’t expected was how much the forest came alive after dark. As the sun dipped behind the horizon, leaving the sky a deepening shade of indigo, I waited with quiet anticipation. I was here for something small, really, really small. Somewhere in this brittle forest lived the world’s tiniest primate: Madame Berthe’s mouse lemur.

A mere 3.6in (9cm) long and barely weighing 1oz (30g), this little creature fits in the palm of a hand. With its large, dark eyes and swift movements, it was easy to miss, but thanks to my guide shining just the right amount of torchlight, I saw one clinging to a branch no thicker than a pencil, staring back at me. The wide, unblinking eyes captured my attention before I marvelled at its size and cinnamon-coloured fur. This tiny species is endemic to Kirindy, and with ongoing deforestation, it has become critically endangered, leaving it with fewer safe places to live and forage. Knowing this encounter is becoming rarer made the sight of one feel even more precious.

Another rare and even more elusive sighting in Kirindy is the fossa. This apex predator is particularly adept at concealing itself in dense forests. An excellent climber, it spends much of its time in the trees, using its long tail for balance as it silently moves through the canopy. Due to its solitary nature, the fossa doesn’t rely on visibility to track prey or share territory.

Spotting one requires a great deal of patience and a keen eye. As we crept deeper into the woods, my guide’s keen gaze flicked from tree to tree, searching for the slightest movement. Time passed, and we stayed patient. The forest was unnervingly silent, as though it was holding its breath. Then, from the periphery of my vision, I saw a shadow moving slowly and gracefully. As my eyes adjusted, there it was, perched on a branch, watching, sizing us up. For a brief moment, our eyes locked, the fossa’s gaze steady and confident, before it melted back into the darkness, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. The encounter left me breathless, a rare moment with one of the forest's most elusive residents.