Not only did all these creatures become extinct with the coming of man, but the habitat of the survivors now started to change under the pressures from Homo sapiens. As usual the felling of the forest to create farmland was the beginning, and then the grasslands thus created were burnt to provide sweet young shoots for zebu. A pall of smoke hung and still, at certain times of the year, hangs over Madagascar. The island chokes in this shroud of smoke; the red earth, no longer protected by the leafy overcoat of forest, is red like huge arteries, and then the earth is carried out to the sea in a giant red mantle. This is Madagascar, bleeding to death from self-inflicted wounds. The slash-and-burn agriculture, which did not matter when the population was small and the forest had a chance to regenerate, is still practised today by an ever-increasing population numbering nearly ten million people. The forests are under pressure, too, from the gigantic herds of zebu which graze indiscriminately, even in areas designated as reserves.
Ecologically speaking, man is killing Madagascar, and so himself, as he is doing in so many parts of the world. However, many Malagasy are fully aware of their remarkable and valuable heritage and are trying their best to do something to save it. There are excellent biologists, foresters, agronomists and educators in Madagascar, but their projects need financial support and their ranks need reinforcements.
Over the past few years in Jersey we have started several breeding groups of Malagasy fauna, and have met with considerable success. Among the smaller creatures are some strange little insectivores known as tenrecs. These little animals—of which there are many different species—resemble European hedgehogs, but instead of rolling into a ball when threatened, they merely pull down the prickly skin of the head over their noses in a ferocious scowl. There is one species we had, the streaked tenrec, which had black and white spines in varying lengths arranged in stripes in its pale-yellowish fur. These spines, it has been discovered, not only act as a defence mechanism, but are used by the mother as a means of communication with her generally large litter of babies, enchanting little things that, when newly born look like a brood of spiky bumble-bees. As they are numerous and agile the mother keeps track of them by constantly stridulating the spines on her back, which produces a shrill, cricket-like noise that is partly supersonic and to which the young reply, and thus the harassed mother can keep tabs on her family. Tenrecs feed on a wide variety of insects, as well as slugs, snails and worms, fulfilling in Madagascar the role played by shrews, hedgehogs and moles in Europe.
We had considerable success breeding the pygmy hedgehog tenrec. The reason we took so much trouble over a common species is that, by learning to breed them successfully we were evolving techniques which would stand us in good stead when we attempted to build up colonies of the rarer and more endangered species.
Among our collection of lemurs in Jersey, one of the commonest, but one of the most attractive, is the ring-tailed lemur, a wonderful creature that, in its beautifully marked fur of black, white, ash-grey and a touch of rufous, and with its long black-and-white ringed tail, looks as though its been designed by a very famous, very chic, very expensive and probably very gay interior decorator. The whole artistically laid out colour scheme is rounded off by the fact that they have large, round, tangerine-coloured eyes.
The rarer species are the brown lemurs, rather leggy, svelte creatures with fur that ranges from chocolate brown through cinnamon to café au lait. They are not nearly so startling to look at as the ringtails, but they are most attractive, agile creatures and have bred well with us.
But undoubtedly the rarest and most spectacular of our lemurs are the huge woolly ruffed lemurs, as big as a medium-sized dog. They can be described as the giant panda of the lemur world, for their thick fur is patterned with black and white and touches of bright orange here and there. They have very large, protuberant, straw-coloured eyes with a wild expression, like that of a madman surveying with perpetual astonishment the activities of a sane world. These large, bouncing, handsome creatures are my favourite among our Malagasy collection. One of the things I like best about them is that not only are they spectacular to look at, but their songs have to be heard to be believed. It is difficult always to see what sets them off, but generally two or three times during the day or in the early morning one will start a series of cries that are harsh, penetrating and very loud, like a cross between a roar and a bark. The others all join in at intervals, like a part song, until you finally have the full troop singing, and a deafening, spine-chilling chorus it is. The more nervous of our house guests have been known to drop a cup of scalding tea into their laps when first hearing the ruffed lemurs start to sing. One rather desperate publisher had to be revived with a whiskey at seven in the morning, so great was the shock to his nerves, for he thought our snow leopards had escaped. As the male had spent the afternoon stalking my friend along the wire of the cage, he naturally assumed that he would be first on the menu should this beautiful cat get loose.
Antananarivo, the capital of Madagascar, is a colourful, bustling and lovely city, with mud houses of curious architecture in pale-brown, fawn and pinkish tones with multi-coloured shutters, which climb over the hills like a town of toy bricks and stand tessellated against the blue sky. Through the centre runs the broad, tree-lined boulevard, L’Avenue de l’Indépendence, which once a week is transformed by the great Zoma market. Luckily the market coincided with our arrival, and the stalls were already set out along the broad pavements of the boulevard, each guarded from the sun by white canvas umbrellas. We adore markets of any sort and the Zoma is probably one of the most exotic markets I have seen anywhere in the world. As we wandered happily through the gay, jostling throngs, who wore bright clothes and multicoloured straw hats, we admired the extraordinary array of goods for sale. Here were great baskets laden with chick peas, dried corn, couscous, dried beans and rice. Nearby were flocks of white turkeys with scarlet faces; groups of ducks, their feet tied, a dish of water near each group; hundreds of chickens of a bewildering pageant of colours. There were giant baskets of eggs, of apples, pineapples, mangoes, oranges and other fruits. There were huge carved wooden bedsteads, baskets of raffia, of rope, of cane; huge tin trunks, gaily painted; bags and wallets and suitcases fashioned of thick pungent leather. There were cotton garments embroidered with gay flowers; there were handkerchiefs and trousers and rope-soled sandals. There were huge wall-hangings of thick, crude, parchment-like paper into which had been carefully embedded dried pressed flowers in lovely pastel shades. There were, unfortunately, boxes of butterflies and stuffed chameleons, and jewel-cases and cigarette cases of turtle- and tortoise-shell. And there were the local precious and semi-precious stones and crystals glittering in piles like a king’s ransom. It was a splendid market, filled with happy, smiling people, and the whole thing redolent of a hundred fruits and flowers and animals. Climbing the broad steps that led to the upper part of the town, we looked back at the market which, with its white umbrellas and exotic colourful merchandise, looked like a huge mushroom bed scattered with multicoloured confetti. One would always long to return to Madagascar, I thought, if only to revisit the spectacular Zoma.
It was at this point in Antananarivo, while we were starting to plan our movements, that our guardian angel appeared in the shape of Professor Roland Albignac, an old friend of ours and one who had worked in Madagascar for years. I must say that, with his jaunty black beard, his bronzed face, eagle nose and bright blue eyes, he looked more like Mephistophelian than angelic, but our guardian angel he became. We sat at a tiny table on the pavement outside the hotel, surrounded by people trying to sell us everything from silver bracelets to hand-painted picture postcards to multicoloured straw hats. Over refreshing beer, I outlined the various places we wanted to visit and animals we wanted to film. Roland listened carefully.
‘Well,’ I said, when I had finished. ‘What d’you think, Roland?’
It was then that Roland uttered his famous phrase which was
to become his nickname and the expedition’s watchword.
‘Pas de problème,’ he said, shrugging and giving us his Mephistophelian grin. So Professor Pas de Problème he became forthwith and, indeed, with his wonderful help there were no problems.
5. The Dance of the Lemurs
Our first expedition out of Antananarivo was to fly right down to the south of the island to Fort Dauphin, now called Taolanaro. This is a pretty, quite little port, surrounded by beautiful, pale, straw-coloured beaches which embrace the warm blue sea. Here we paused only long enough to enjoy some of the fabulous oysters and lobsters which abound, and then we headed for our goal which was the reserve at Berenty, lying some fifty miles west of the port.
Berenty, with its colonies of ring-tailed lemurs, has the distinction of being the best-studied area in Madagascar. The reserve is the brainchild of Monsieur Jean DeHeaulme. He owns vast sisal plantations the creation of which, of course, eliminated the natural forests. But M. DeHeaulme, aware that the fauna of Madagascar was under pressure caused by the usurping or destruction of natural habitat, decided to create, in Berenty, an oasis in the vast, serried ranks of spiky sisal plants, by fencing off an area of the virgin gallery forest along the banks of the Mandrare River. Here the forest is protected from indiscriminate grazing by zebu and from logging by man, and so the lemur colonies not only flourish, but have become so tame that they are easy to study and photograph. As we drove through mile after mile of hot, dry sisal plantation, however, my spirits sank as I thought of how many areas of beautiful natural forest had been snuffed out to make way for prickly, cactus-like ugly plant whose only attribute is that it provides hemp. Lee, on the other hand, grew more and more excited the nearer we got to Berenty for this was where she had spent a lot of her time during her two years of study in Madagascar and so she knew what was in store for us.
Presently the road ran out of the sisal plantations and became lined with forest, mainly composed of huge, grey-trunked tamarind trees. These tamarinds form the bulk of the forest at Berenty and, in fact, are not a Malagasy species, but were imported by the Arabs five or six hundred years ago. They have flourished, however, and the lemurs have adapted well to them, feeding voraciously off the leaves and fruit. The road wound through these huge, shady trees and ended at a small group of whitewashed buildings which made up the hotel and museum which M. DeHeaulme had built for visitors. Behind the buildings the thick forests began, spreading for some two hundred and forty acres along the river bank.
As Berenty, scientifically speaking, is most famous for its ringtail troops, it was naturally these artistically designed creatures I expected to see first. But what suddenly catapulted into my life was a completely different kind of lemur, one I had never seen before, and one which, from the moment I set eyes on it, became and still is, my favourite creature in Madagascar.
It fell out of a small tree at the wayside. There is no other way to describe it. But as it landed it bounced as though its hind legs were springs and bounded across the road in a series of huge, graceful hops. It was much bigger than a ringtail, and it had a black face with a picture-frame of white fur round it, a black cap, and sooty markings on its arms and legs; but the rest of its thick fur was creamy white and looked as though it had been spun out of a million dandelion clocks. It paused when it reached the other side of the road and gazed at us interestedly.
‘A sifaka, a sifaka!’ said Lee, excitedly. ‘Look, isn’t it simply beautiful?’
And indeed it was. Its sooty black face had a retroussé black button nose and its round eyes were golden in colour. Its face and expression reminded me in some ways of a two-toed sloth, a South American creature that I love passionately. But the sifaka really won my heart. Not only was it so attractive to look at — the quintessence of cuddliness — but its mode of progression, its great silent bouncing hops, was so enchanting and amazing. This one watched us for a moment or two and then, without any apparent muscular contraction, simply shot straight up into the air and the next second was clinging to a tree trunk some six feet from the ground, clinging so tightly it looked as though it had been grafted on. It stayed there for a moment, regarding us with its surprised golden eyes, and then left the tree propelling itself with its long hind legs, turning in mid-air so that it landed the right way round, ‘grafted’ on to another tree trunk some twenty feet away. Here it stayed for a few minutes and then, bored with our attentions, set off through the forest in a series of prodigious and absolutely silent leaps as easily as if it had been progressing along level ground.
Later on during our stay, I looked out of our room and saw three sifakas bounding like balls across the courtyard. Going outside, I stood under a small tree for about a quarter of an hour, watching them bounding about in the distant trees through my binoculars. Then, when I was preparing to go back into the house I glanced up and there, to my astonishment, were five sifakas lolling about in the branches above my head within touching distance. They were all in nonchalant attitudes, their long legs dangling, regarding me from grave golden eyes. Occasionally one would reach out, delicately pluck a tiny leaf and put it daintily into its mouth. It flattered me that they did not regard me as being in any way a menace — if anything I think they found me rather boring and perhaps a trifle boorish as I walked round and round the tree peering at them from every angle. But for me it was a great thrill to be so close to these enchanting animals and have them treat me as if I were not there.
Later on the day of our arrival we set off into the reserve. The only way the forest has been altered is that M. DeHeaulme has cut a series of wide paths across the whole area, rather like ‘rides’ in an English forest. These not only allow you to get about more quickly, but also enable you to pinpoint whereabouts you are in the area, for in that sort of triangle you can soon get lost. We found that, while there were small troops of sifakas in the forest, the bulk of the lemur population was made up of troops, some twenty strong, of ringtails. Though they wandered through the forest they also found the roadways useful, and it was most amusing to watch a troop of them ambling sedately along the road, pausing to pick up a seed or an insect, all their black-and-white-ringed tails held stiffly aloft like strange, funny caterpillars. Like the sifakas the ringtails completely ignored us, and we sat there among the trees, surrounded by feeding, bickering lemurs who appeared to regard us as just part of the forest. So we could see how they marked their territory, either by using the scent gland at the base of the tail, or else by slashing grooves in the bark of branches and tree trunks with the sharp, horny wrist spurs, which also produce scent. Some older trees had their trunks slashed up to a height of three feet with hundreds of cuts, as though someone had carved a pattern with a penknife.
It was enchanting to be able to drift through the forest with the sifakas above you and the ringtails (much more terrestrial) walking all around you; and there were the other inhabitants of the forest as well.
Dozens of handsome kites gathered to bathe in the shallows on the great sand-bars that lay like fawn ribs across the glinting, chocolate-coloured waters of the river. Having bathed, they would fly to a particular very large dead tamarind tree on the edge of the forest where they would festoon the branches, holding out their wings and shuffling their feathers to let them dry in the brilliant hot sunshine. Along the paths you could see and hear the Madagascar fodies, perched in the sombre recesses of the forest, singing their delightful song, their red feathering making them stand out against the shadows like drops of blood. Then there were the great, long-tailed ground couas, and cuckoo-sized crested couas, clad in grayish blue, and an all-black coucal, devil black with bright russet wings, who made the forest ring with its liquid cries. There were five-foot-long yellow and black snakes, looking like animated old school ties; chameleons of every shape — crested, horned and otherwise bedecked; and a most peculiar insect which Lee found, the famous Malagasy ‘hissing’ cockroach. This large, glossy brown, prickly creature, fat
and round and the size of a lemon, was beautifully armoured against its enemies. But as well, it had a trick which could make the more timid predator retreat. On being picked up it made a loud ringing-zinging noise, such as a toy clockwork train makes when lifted suddenly from its rails. The noise is so unexpected and loud that you are instinctively startled into dropping the creature.
Our time in the enchanted forests of Berenty seemed all too short, but we had to press on and follow Roland to the northwest where he wanted to show us ‘his’ forest, a reserve with one of those jaw-breaking Malagasy names — Ankarafantsika. This is a curious dry deciduous tropical forest that Roland and his students at the University of Madagascar had been studying for some time. So we went back to Antananarivo (from which all roads seemed to lead) and started off in our mini-bus, packed with our gear and our persons, for the fifteen-hour grueling drive over extremely bad roads. At first the countryside was the rolling uplands, badly eroded with great red areas of exposed laterite. Here and there in the valleys there were squares of water denoting a rice paddy, the surface reflecting the blue sky, the whole thing framed in a rim of emerald green. Many times during the day we were slowed down or brought to a halt by huge herds of zebu being driven to market, their hooves kicking up pale-pink swathes of dust that floated in great clouds in the still, sunlit air. We stopped for lunch in a tiny and very picturesque village, the small brown brick houses with their steeply pitched roofs giving the place a curiously Hansel-and-Gretel Tyrolean air. Here the restaurant was in a vast upstairs room, and we fed off delicious crab soup and ramazava, a sort of Malagasy Irish stew served on rice and containing meat and chicken. It was a delicious and sustaining meal, but unfortunately John, who had picked up a stomach bug in Mauritius, was unable to eat anything. As compensation I purchased for him a bottle of rice brandy, manufactured in Korea, with a whole, real viper enshrined in its depths. Apparently this revolting drink is much favoured by the Chinese population in Madagascar. John was very proud of this bottle but, rather selfishly we thought, refused to take a swig from it so we could witness its potency. We felt sure a swig of it would put paid to any bug he was suffering from.