The rainforest echoed with what appeared to be the sound of a pod of humpback whales – strange mournful wails creating a haunting melody that rose over the forest canopy and sent shivers down our spines.
As we were in the mountainous rainforest of Perinet in central Madagascar, and not the ocean depths, these mystical sounds could only belong to one creature: the largest lemur on Earth, the indri.
We followed the echoing calls through dense vegetation and along a muddy trail until we eventually reached its source – a four- foot, black-and-white lemur reclining comfortably in the crook of a tree, a few feet above our heads.
She regarded us with large greenish eyes, ears swivelling at our approach, and then shifted her lanky legs slightly and went back to wailing into the forest.
While for many people, Madagascar will unfortunately forever be tied to the animated film of the same name (involving cavorting cartoon lemurs and an annoying lion and zebra from a New York zoo) the reality is far more interesting.
It is a country of vastly different landscapes, filled with animals and plants found nowhere else in the world.
It is also a country on the brink of environmental catastrophe, with forests disappearing at an alarming rate as the natural world is pushed into ever more isolated refuges. Perinet is one of Madagascar’s most accessible stretches of mountainous rainforest, easily reachable from the capital, Antananarivo.
As we were driven there at reckless speed in a car of uncertain lineage, it only took three hours to arrive at the National Park.
Covering over 15,000 hectares, it is a place of dense forest and rolling hills, populated by indris and a host of other lemurs, birds, chameleons, orchids and assorted wildlife.
We went on night walks to find ghostly chameleons, were stared at in wide-eyed horror by wooly lemurs and were caught in numerous rain storms while navigating our way over rivers and waterfalls.
After several days in Perinet we set off southwards, being lucky enough to catch a lift in an American Embassy vehicle with black-tinted windows, where we luxuriated in the air conditioning as we rumbled along increasingly uneven roads. Madagascar flashed by outside, until there was a bone-jarring clanking from somewhere underneath the car as the brake pads broke apart.
Thankfully, we ground to a halt opposite a lychee seller, his stall bursting with the vibrant pink, spiky fruits. We shovelled them into our mouths in handfuls while the car cooled down and eventually continued along our merry way, using the gears in lieu of brakes.
Our next port of call was a far cry from the mist-enshrouded vegetation of Perinet. The town of Ifaty, on Madagascar’s south-west coast, provided the gateway to an entirely different world altogether.
Here we could explore the remnants of the other-worldly spiny forests for which the area is famous. Gone was the lush rainforest and instead we found ourselves in a flat and dusty landscape, punctuated with the bizarre bulbous forms of Baobab trees and the spiky arms of Octotillo cacti. The spiny forests stretch along a (now) narrow expanse of coastline, and are being felled at an alarming rate.
We arranged for a local guide to trek with us into the forest and stood hopefully outside the gate of our hostel at the appointed hour early the following morning. After half an hour of futile waiting we decided to track him down ourselves and made our way to the village compound where he lived.
There we were greeted by an aggressive-looking cockerel, which pecked furiously at the ground, and silence. We looked around the huts in the faint light of dawn and found our guide lying on the floor, wrapped up in a dusty cloak against the cold. He was fast asleep and smelt strongly of alcohol.
We eventually managed to rouse him, and he peered at us blearily before telling us that he had come looking for us but had to turn back because of ‘wild dogs’.
After focusing on our sceptical glares, he confirmed that, actually, he had spent the whole night watching the World Cup and drinking (we had made the mistake of paying him beforehand), and was in no state to lead us around the forest. However, his eight-year-old son would take us instead.
It turned out that his son was actually a pretty good guide, and we spent the next few hours taking in the incredible landscape. It was certainly a fairly hostile habitat, replete with vegetation that was festooned with spikes and thorns.
Long-tailed ground-rollers trotted through thickets like miniature road runners, while mixed flocks of vangas (a family of birds endemic to Madagascar) flew overhead. Baobab trees loomed over us, their bloated trunks looking incongruous compared to their relatively spindly canopy. The ground was dusty and red.
On our return to the village we were given a visual reminder of why the spiny forests are dwindling away. Our original guide, now in a more-or-less upright position, was unsteadily chopping away at a Baobab tree for fire-wood while a flock of goats ravaged the plants beneath. Another piece of the forest was gone.
On the return loop to Antananarivo, we passed barren landscapes now devoid of natural vegetation. In some areas, large hordes of Madagascans were busy digging into the ground in search of gemstones – Madagascar is famous for its gems, including sapphires, emeralds and rubies.
It was back-breaking work, with everyone toiling under the sun and in the dust, knowing that they would only make money if they actually found something worth selling – which they rarely did.
Beyond this vista of human misery we eventually alighted at Isalo National Park, a protected area which included deep canyons, sandstone formations and oasis fringed with palm trees.
It was an incredible place, vast stretches of wilderness where wandering troops of ring-tailed lemurs were common. These fantastic creatures had long black and white tails and inquisitive expressions accentuated by their tufted white ears. They peered at us from the trees in mild interest, before returning to their leafy lunches.
Large chameleons lurked among the dense vegetation around the oases, causing considerable alarm in our guide, who almost jumped out of his skin when I picked one up to show him.
Being a very large and burly man, I was surprised by his high pitched squeal of terror but later found out many Madagascans are apparently extremely fearful of chameleons as they consider them to be associated with witchcraft.
While our guide hid from the chameleon, we took the opportunity to bathe in the cool waters of an oasis – a welcome respite to the dry heat of the day.
Light filtered down through the palm trees, as the chameleon slowly made his way back into the foliage from whence he came.
It was a truly magical experience to lie in such solitude in cool, refreshing waters, far from the sound of everyday life.
At the rate that Madagascar’s natural heritage is being eaten away, however, it truly is a case of ‘see it before it’s gone’.