Pointing is considered rude by many cultures.
But in the riverine gallery forests of southeast Madagascar — and everywhere else on the island — extending an index finger is a serious taboo, one of many covered by fady, a range of cultural prohibitions supposedly enforced by supernatural powers. “You can use your knuckle or a full hand,” suggests guide Theophile Zafison when I ask how else we’re supposed to zone in on lemurs camouflaged in thick undergrowth or hiding in a tangle of treetops. Without the aid of digits, searches require more time spent trying to decipher exactly which branch everyone is talking about.
Stepping over the shrivelled, sticky pods shed by tamarind trees, we carefully scan the canopy for signs of movement. As strong and sturdy as marble columns in a cathedral, thick trunks support a vaulted cupola of fading greenery. Like rays refracted through a stained-glass window, broken beams of sunlight scatter patterns across earthy aisles. In this temple built by nature, there’s a solemnity only the spirits of ancestors can command.
Once used as a burial site, this forest has inadvertently had its future safeguarded by respect for departed elders. Considered untouchable in local lore, this resting place for the dead has become a home for the living also: paradise flycatchers flit through shadows, warty chameleons spiral their tails around branches and ring-tailed lemurs caterwaul to departed souls.
In theory, Madagascar has a lot to lament. At the frontline of climate change, this island nation in the Indian Ocean has been battered by cyclones and suffered years of sustained drought, while certain areas teeter on the brink of famine. Life expectancy is one of the lowest in Africa (63 for men and 68 for women) and according to data from the World Bank around 80% of people
