Years ago, when guidebooks were still an essential travel tool, I asked my American editors to commission a guidebook on the Indian Ocean islands. With a somewhat perverse grasp of geography, they offered me India instead. Undeterred – India after all offered Lakshadweep, Andaman and Nicobar islands – I persevered, and chapters on Zanzibar and Mafia islands duly followed. I circumnavigated Mauritius in a cheap rental, ticked off Mozambique’s Quirimbas and Bazaruto archipelagos, and finally saw Seychelles.
That said, writing mainly for dollar-wielding clients, the focus was predominantly on luxury accommodation; the oppressive hum of opulence – air conditioners, minibar fridges, private pool filters – a far cry from the castaway fantasy I cherished, and repeat visits saw unchecked development excoriate once pristine shorelines.
My stepfather – who lived out his last wishes by sailing the Indian Ocean islands with the woman who replaced my mother – was the first to tip me off. “The real deal,” he called the Nosy Be archipelago. “A time warp.”
The second was a stranger at a candlelit table, toes curled into Benguerra Island’s powder-soft sands. We were making the usual small talk – tracing the knots that led to us sharing a table that night – when I asked where he’d had his best holiday. He answered without hesitation: chartering a catamaran to explore the Nosy Be archipelago, dropping anchor alongside deserted beaches, feasting on freshly-caught fish. “Not expensive either,” he said, waving a vague hand at a nearby thatched bungalow that cost five-digit dollars. He shook his head. “You really need to get there.”
Nosy Be is now surprisingly easy to get to – hop onto a flight from Cape Town in the morning and by mid-afternoon you’re drinking a welcome cocktail. Or some 15 hours after taking off from Heathrow you’re touching down at Fascene airport. No jet lag either – Madagascar is only three hours ahead of GMT. But it took a very special place to lure more than seafaring adventurers and big-game anglers to Madagascar’s northwestern archipelago.
It’s a 20-minute boat ride from Nosy Be’s Hell-Ville harbour to lush Nosy Komba – “island of lemurs” in Malagasy – travelling along its lush green flank before Tsara Komba finally hoves into view: eight thatched-roof bungalows peeking through steeply forested slopes; hands-on manager Nava and her team waving below on the beach.
Step off the boat, ankles awash in the balmy Indian ocean, and onto a deep crescent of sand edged by black volcanic boulders, and gnarly beach almonds interspersed with palms. Stone staircases wind through ylang-ylang-scented gardens, a riot of textured greens with splashes of bright colour – hibiscus; bougainvillea; ixora, frangipani. Ginger, vanilla and coffee growing in the shade, the feathered crowns of Traveller’s Palms reaching for the sky.
And from every polished deck, an ocean view with the most gorgeous topography – across the bay, the arboreal slopes of Lokobé National Park, protecting a pristine tract of rainforest; due south, the layered peaks of the Amber Mountain National Park a distant smudge of purple. It’s a view entirely untouched by the 21st century.
Measuring no more than four miles in length and three in width, Nosy Komba is highly diverse, given its size – home to 41 reptile species, including six chameleons and 16 geckos, and 11 frog species – but it’s Lokobé National Park that provides the real knock-out forest experience.
Minutes into my visit – the air alive with exotic birds and the high-pitched calls of sportive lemurs, dense with ferns and creepers, hot and humid despite the dappled shade – we encountered our first Madagascar tree boa, girth the size of a young tree trunk. Our guide managed the impossible: finding a leaf-tailed gecko – immaculately camouflaged; the Nosy Be pygmy chameleon, measuring less than an inch, hidden amidst the leaf litter; a tiny mouse lemur curled up in a palm pod, moon-like eyes blinking. We passed a ground boa shedding its skin, the arrow head emerging saturated in colour and glistening; above us, black lemurs gazed down, impossibly cute with their permanent look of wide-eyed surprise, prehensile tails and childlike fingers clutching onto bowed branches.
The next morning, the boat dropped us at nearby Tanikely Marine Reserve. After exploring the lighthouse, brightly coloured skinks darting across the path, we plunged into a world that couldn’t be more different. A kaleidoscope of fish against variegated corals, names as outlandish as a paint shop catalogue – goldbar wrasse, limespot butterfly fish, powder-blue surgeon fish, rainbow wrasse, orange-spine unicorn… And lo! Green turtles – giant shadows over the flat mushroom corals, stopping to graze in a seagrass meadow. They swam with effortless grace, at times almost within touching distance; when a parrot-like beak broke the surface to gulp in air, I looked straight into a beady eye and experienced a bizarre acknowledgement, leaving me buoyant with joy.
Back at Tsara Komba, the black lemurs were gambolling through Antrema, the local village, a four-minute stroll along the beach. Children played with toys they’d made, no one stared glassy-eyed at their mobile phones; no tourists, no fences, no gates, no armed askaris. Village life appeared unimpeded by the presence of the lodge; on the contrary. Embroidered tablecloths fluttered in the beachfront breeze – a great souvenir, but no pressure to buy.
I wandered back to one of the sun decks overlooking the ocean, contemplating the next day. Perhaps Nosy Iranja, and a chance to spot humpback whales. Across the bay, crepuscular light filtered through pillowed clouds, biblical in scale. There is so much beauty to be found in the world, but here – awed by the delicate perfection of a pygmy chameleon; the rich colour of fresh boa skin; locking eyes with an 80-year-old turtle – I felt I was in a world apart; utterly unspoilt, and all the more magnificent.
