Ranomafana National Park, Madagascar

After spending a night in Manakara, I packed up and left the coast behind, heading inland toward Ranomafana National Park. The road twisted and climbed back into the hills, and the air grew cooler with each turn. I travelled by car this time, passing banana groves, rows of coffee shrubs, and roadside markets where lychee and jackfruit were piled high in baskets. The higher the car climbed, the more the landscape changed, with ferns growing wild in the ditches, moss creeping up the tree trunks, and thick vines dangling from the canopy like ropes.

Ranomafana means “hot water” in Malagasy, and is named after the natural thermal springs nearby. But for most people, the rainforest is the real reason to come. Covering more than 41,000 hectares, it’s one of the most biodiverse pockets of Madagascar, and I was more than ready to explore it. I checked into a cosy little eco-lodge just outside the forest and arranged to head into the park the next morning with a local guide.

From the moment I stepped beneath the trees, it felt like I’d entered a different world. Everything was cool, damp, and muddy underfoot. The forest floor was scattered with fallen leaves and mushrooms of every shape and size. Towering bamboo groves and tree ferns arched overhead, tangled with epiphytic orchids clinging to branches and the occasional flash of something moving above.

It didn’t take long to spot my first lemurs. A group of golden bamboo lemurs hung quietly in the trees, wide-eyed, munching on young bamboo shoots. This species was only discovered in the 1980s. A bit further in, red-bellied lemurs leapt across branches, their rich chestnut fur catching the light. Then I heard the distant, eerie call of the greater bamboo lemur, the reason Ranomafana exists. Once thought extinct, the species was rediscovered in this very forest in 1986. It was such an important find that it sparked the national park's creation in 1991. Without it, this whole rainforest might still be unprotected today. I didn’t see any, though—not surprising, considering there are fewer than 1,000 left in the wild, making it one of the rarest primates on Earth. 

Birds flashed through the canopy, brightly coloured vangas with their sharp, curved beaks, the striking turquoise couas, and sunbirds, their iridescent feathers gleaming in the dappled sunlight. Each one moved with purpose, darting between branches or hovering briefly before vanishing into the shadows of the trees.

Down in the undergrowth, chameleons like the O’Shaughnessy and the impressive, hefty Parson’s slowly revealed themselves, but only if I stood very still and let my eyes adjust to the layers of green. Their camouflage was so perfect that they seemed to melt into the foliage. Frogs, too, emerged from the blur, some no larger than a fingernail, like the tiny Stumpffia frogs, tucked into the moss like living pebbles. I had to crouch low and be patient before I could make one out.

Ranomafana felt ancient, a place untouched by time. Even the air was different, cooler, fragrant with wet leaves and blossoms. I spent hours on the trails, always hoping for one more glimpse of a lemur or a colourful chameleon. Every corner of the park was alive, and even as I left, I knew I had only scratched the surface.