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<\/a><\/p>\nA large banyan tree grows on a rock ledge near the village of Mahaleotse, in southwest Madagascar. Garth Cripps for Vox<\/p>\n
I scrambled up the cliff for a better view of the canopy, when I saw something staring back at me: a lemur. It had scruffy white fur, a black face with bug-eyes, and a tail that was at least the length of its body. This wasn\u2019t just any lemur; it was a Verreaux\u2019s sifaka<\/a>: a critically endangered species that I\u2019ve spent much of my life longing to see.<\/p>\n This story is part of a series<\/p>\n This fall, Vox is publishing a three-part series<\/a> on conservation in Madagascar, supported by the BAND Foundation. This story is part 2.<\/p>\n Madagascar, an island nation east of continental Africa, is the only place on Earth where lemurs exist. There are more than 100 lemur species, and nearly all of them are at risk of extinction<\/a>, including the sifaka. Their foe is deforestation; all lemurs depend on trees for food and shelter, and half or more<\/a> of the country\u2019s forests are now gone.<\/p>\n In Madagascar, unlike in many other forested nations, the bulk of deforestation isn\u2019t caused by the industrial-scale farming and cattle ranching that often enriches big corporations<\/a>. Forests here are primarily felled by individual families who cut trees to grow crops or collect cooking fuel. That\u2019s how many people feed themselves and make money. They often have few other options; Madagascar ranks among the top five poorest countries in the world<\/a>, and people here have few economic opportunities that don\u2019t rely on exploitation.<\/p>\n Against this dim reality, the lemur before me represented something hopeful. The only reason it was here was that this tree was still standing. And this tree was still standing, because nearby villages have worked hard against tough odds to protect the forest they all share.<\/p>\n Working alongside the World Wildlife Fund, one of the world\u2019s largest environmental organizations, those villages created new economic opportunities for themselves that don\u2019t destroy the forest. Together, they demonstrate a crucial element of what makes conservation work in the poorest parts of the world: first, meeting the needs of people, and then, stepping out of the way to let them take charge.<\/p>\n The lemur I saw lives in the Onilahy River basin of southwest Madagascar, not far from the coast and the largest city in the region, called Toliara. It\u2019s a strange landscape \u2014 a collision of desert and forest, where spiny shrubs grow nearby tall trees. The south of Madagascar is arid, yet there\u2019s an abundance of water here that flows from the river and a series of natural springs.<\/p>\n On a warm morning towards the end of winter in the Southern Hemisphere, I traveled from Toliara to a small village near the river called Maroamalo. The road was mostly dirt and spotted with crater-sized potholes, which \u2014 along with several goat-related traffic jams \u2014 turned a 15-mile trip into a three-hour, butt-bruising adventure.<\/p>\n Cropland bordering the Onilahy River, near the village of Ifanato. Garth Cripps for Vox<\/p>\n A female souimanga sunbird near the coastal town of Mangily. Garth Cripps for Vox<\/p>\n Maroamalo is one of several communities helping protect the lemur-filled forests of the Onilahy River basin. Working alongside staff from WWF, they manage a protected area called Amoron\u2019i Onilahy. The park is only around 250,000 acres \u2014 making it a little larger than New York City \u2014 yet it envelops a wide variety of ecosystems, from wetlands to spiny thickets<\/a> and a huge number<\/a> of rare species, including eight kinds of primates.<\/p>\n In some ways, Amoron\u2019i Onilahy is Madagascar in miniature. The island nation is packed full of different habitat types, which is one reason why it has a higher proportion of endemic species<\/a> than any other place on Earth.<\/p>\n Protected areas \u2014 which typically restrict certain activities that degrade ecosystems and endanger biodiversity \u2014 have a mixed record of success<\/a>. This is especially true in Madagascar. Studies<\/a> have found<\/a> that people clear trees even within parts of the country that are formally protected, including those<\/a> that are managed by communities.<\/p>\n Cactuses and other plants adapted to arid conditions grow along the road to Maroamalo. Garth Cripps for Vox<\/p>\n A herd of goats \u2014 a form of wealth in traditional Madagascar villages \u2014 moves through Maroamalo. Garth Cripps for Vox<\/p>\n Farmers harvest rice along the Onilahy River, which supplies water to an otherwise dry region. Garth Cripps for Vox<\/p>\n One reason is that most of Madagascar\u2019s parks lack the funds to monitor vast areas for illegal woodcutting. But a bigger challenge is that few protected areas confront the reason why people cut trees at all: their own survival. When the choice is between breaking the law and feeding your family, people choose survival. \u201cDeforestation and illegal exploitation are still impacting nearly all protected areas despite 30 years of intensive conservation efforts,\u201d as the authors of one study<\/a> put it.<\/p>\n What just happened to Madagascar\u2019s government?<\/p>\n On September 25, the day I left Madagascar to return to the US, the capital city of Antananarivo erupted in protests<\/a>, then led by Andry Rajoelina, against the government. Demonstrators \u2014 largely led by Gen Z \u2014 expressed outrage over water, electricity shortages, and a lack of economic opportunities.<\/p>\n The protests continued for days, supercharged by broader grievances including corruption and poor governance. And on October 14, Rajoelina was impeached<\/a>, and the military seized control of the country. Col. Michael Randrianirina is now in control of a transitional government that\u2019s meant to organize elections within two years.<\/p>\n The government upheaval highlights the deep level of human need in Madagascar, which drives people to exploit free natural resources. Events like this also tend to fuel deforestation<\/a> and make it even harder for conservation to work. Political crises weaken law enforcement, allowing more illegal logging, and hamper scientific research and tourism that support conservation.<\/p>\n Amoron\u2019i Onilahy, however, appears to be an exception.<\/p>\n There are a few things you notice right away in Maroamalo: Many of its homes are made of mud, rock, and plant fiber; chickens, ducks, and goats seem to be wandering around everywhere; and just behind the village center, where the land slopes into the river valley, there are acres of verdant farmland, which pop against the surrounding brown Earth. It was as if a patchy green quilt had been laid across the valley.<\/p>\n Worldwide, agriculture is the number one threat to biodiversity<\/a>. To meet the rising global demand for food, agrobusinesses often clear natural habitats for crops and livestock<\/a>. But here in Maroamalo, farming is actually helping keep the forest intact.<\/p>\n Only about one in three<\/a> people in Madagascar have access to electricity, and even fewer people use natural gas. That\u2019s why nearly everyone<\/a> cooks with either simple firewood or, in more urban areas<\/a>, charcoal \u2014 a carbon-rich fuel source produced from tree branches. Around cities like Toliara, making charcoal is how many people earn money to pay for food, school supplies, and medical bills. One 110-pound (50 kg) bag sells for $2 to $3. In Madagascar, that\u2019s enough to buy a few meals.<\/p>\n Charcoal production was once common among villages in the region like Maroamalo, said Nanie Ratsifandrihamanana, who leads WWF\u2019s work in Madagascar. That\u2019s one reason why the river basin has lost so many of its trees. Shifting cultivation, better known as slash-and-burn agriculture, further eroded the forests here. People would burn one plot of forest to clear the way for crops, and then, once the soil was exhausted and weeds took over, do the same thing in another. Across nearly all of Madagascar, and much of Africa<\/a>, these are among the two largest forces that raze forests.<\/p>\n WWF has long been aware of these problems. So, more than a decade ago, staff from the organization began talking with communities here about how they could earn money without cutting trees. This idea had appeal. Speaking with me under the shade of a large neem tree in Maroamalo, members of the village said they, too, had seen the problems that deforestation had caused. Without roots to hold the soil in place, the ground started to erode, making it harder to grow crops, they told me. Losing trees also made the landscape drier and more likely to flood.<\/p>\n WWF later worked with villages along the river \u2014 which are now part of the protected area \u2014 to build out economies that don\u2019t exploit the remaining tracts of forest. And in Maroamalo, that economy was vegetable farming, as counterintuitive as this approach may seem.<\/p>\n Instead of only growing staples like cassava and corn, the village would cultivate a wide variety of vegetables to sell in Toliara. WWF would provide seeds and training on how to farm the crops more efficiently and without burning and taking up more space in the forest. They\u2019d also help connect farmers to buyers in the city, including hotels. The idea was that if people could earn more money from farming, they wouldn\u2019t need to clear forests for charcoal.<\/p>\n And that\u2019s exactly what\u2019s happening.<\/p>\n Later that morning, Mme Lalao, a resident of Maroamalo who oversees farming in the village, walked me through the vegetable fields. She showed me ten or so different crops \u2014 including eggplant, cabbage, and onions \u2014 all planted in neat rows, like what you might see in California.<\/p>\n Nearly everyone in Maroamalo now works in agriculture, she said, which has grown into the main economy here. One vegetable farmer can earn about $21 per month, according to Mercie Ramilanajoroharivelo, a WWF employee who works with the communities. That\u2019s far more than people typically make from selling charcoal, Ramilanajoroharivelo told me.<\/p>\n \u201cWe didn\u2019t have the agriculture skills before, so people would go into the forest for charcoal,\u201d Lalao said that morning. \u201cBut now they are working here.\u201d<\/p>\n Carts pulled by cattle are far more common than cars on the roads in Amoron\u2019i Onilahy. Garth Cripps for Vox<\/p>\n Creating new economies only goes so far in protecting the forests and lemurs of Amoron\u2019i Onilahy. While villagers inside the park now seldom bake charcoal or burn the forest, people who migrate here from other areas are still cutting trees. This is a common problem<\/a> in Madagascar. When deforestation, droughts, and floods make it hard to farm or find wood in one area, people move to another in search of a better life. And climate change is making those sorts of moves more common.<\/p>\n \u201cIf you\u2019ve lost everything, you migrate to the places where you can get resources for free,\u201d said Charlie Gardner<\/a>, a researcher and writer who studied conservation in Madagascar. \u201cThat\u2019s two places: the coast where you can do beach seining<\/a>, or the forest where you can produce charcoal. Things like charcoal production are a livelihood of last resort.\u201d<\/p>\n African queen butterflies resting on a plant during a nightwalk near the village of Ifanato. Garth Cripps for Vox<\/p>\n That means that to keep the trees in Amoron\u2019i Onilahy standing, the local communities still need to monitor the forest for woodcutting.<\/p>\n Later that day, after spending the morning in Maroamalo, I traveled along the dirt road deeper into the protected area to a village called Mahaleotse. Here, the forest was more impressive. It had bigger trees, denser undergrowth, and lots of life. On a walk in the woods that night, I saw chameleons hiding in the trees; fruit bats flying overhead; and, of course, hissing cockroaches (which do, I confirmed, actually hiss).<\/p>\n The next morning, around sunrise, I met up with a group of men from Mahaleotse known as polisin\u2019ala, or forest rangers. Villages in Amoron\u2019i Onilahy that work with WWF have a team of paid patrollers. They walk the forest 10 times each month, receiving about $2 per patrol from WWF. If they spot illegal woodcutting, they\u2019ll try to stop it and report the infraction back to their community and environmental authorities. In some cases, the perpetrator will have to pay a fine.<\/p>\n It\u2019s a complicated job. Outsiders who come here to cut wood are often desperate for money, but local villagers don\u2019t want to lose the surrounding forest and the benefits it provides. \u201cIt was their decision to destroy their own forest, so that doesn\u2019t mean they get to destroy ours,\u201d Renama Zatompo Mahinty, one of the patrollers in Mahaleotse, said of migrants from outside villages. \u201cIf I tear my own T-shirt, that doesn\u2019t give me the right to take someone else\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n While there was still a morning chill in the air, I followed the men on a patrol. A ranger named Ramilison Roland paused in front of a large fig tree a few minutes into the walk and pointed up. Through a tangle of twigs and leaves, I saw four ring-tailed lemurs snuggled together on a branch. They were wrapped in each other\u2019s fluffy black-and-white tails and hardly moving, because, as Roland said, they had just woken up.<\/p>\n Forest rangers patrol the forest near Mahaleotse on September 19.<\/p>\n A group of ring-tailed lemurs snuggled up together on a tree in the village of Ifanato the next morning. Garth Cripps for Vox<\/p>\n Ring-tailed lemurs are endangered, yet, in just an hour that morning, we saw two different troops of them \u2014 a sign that something here is working.<\/p>\n These rangers are paid, but they told me they\u2019d still surveil the forest without financial support. The benefits of trees are too important to lose \u2014 building materials for homes and schools and a lower chance of droughts, flooding, and erosion. \u201cIt\u2019s not really a matter of money,\u201d Roland said that morning. \u201cWe have advantages of protecting the forest, not only for us, but for the future generation.\u201d<\/p>\n A troop of ring-tailed lemurs bask in the early morning sun near Mahaleotse. Garth Cripps for Vox<\/p>\n Madagascar is among the most challenging places on Earth for wildlife conservation. Political unrest hampers the flow of foreign aid<\/a>, weakens law enforcement, and disrupts tourism, which is a vehicle to fund environmental protection. Poor governance also deepens poverty. And poverty leaves people with little choice but to depend on activities that erode the forest. Those are some of the reasons why a lot of non-governmental organization (NGO) projects fail, as I wrote in October<\/a>.<\/p>\n But I\u2019m convinced this one is succeeding.<\/p>\n Villagers in Amoron\u2019i Onilahy told me that, by most measures, the landscape here is improving; there\u2019s more forest, more lemurs, and more water. Data from WWF is limited and more mixed. The group\u2019s satellite analysis shows that deforestation fell dramatically within the park between 2015 and 2020, rose again between 2021 and 2023, and then dropped once more in 2024. Amoron\u2019i Onilahy hasn\u2019t lost any forest cover this year through June, the most recent months of data, WWF says. (WWF has not measured natural forest recovery.)<\/p>\n Boys guard their herd under gallery forest of the Onilahy river, Ifanato, September 19, 2025. In this arid region where the rural people rely on farming and hoarding, the fertile land and water of the Onilahy river, and its adjacent valleys, are critical to them. Garth Cripps for Vox<\/p>\n The density of ring-tailed and sifaka lemurs, meanwhile, has improved since 2003, according to the group.<\/p>\n To be clear, a lot of this success would be hard to replicate elsewhere in Madagascar. Amoron\u2019i Onilahy has benefited from decades of investment from WWF. That\u2019s rare, said Gardner. Donors tend to be drawn to projects that sound new and exciting rather than funding the same activities for years and years, he said. Plus, the park sits atop an aquifer; in some places, freshwater literally gushes from the ground. That makes large-scale farming possible here. Elsewhere, it\u2019s just too dry.<\/p>\n Fields of rice in a valley near the village of Ambiky. Garth Cripps for Vox<\/p>\n What\u2019s also worth pointing out is that strategies to restrict charcoal production in Amoron\u2019i Onilahy don\u2019t quell demand for it nationwide. If people stop cutting trees in this forest, they might just do it elsewhere.<\/p>\n Yet, Amoron\u2019i Onilahy does offer important lessons on how to help conservation succeed in other challenging parts of the world. Investing in non-exploitative economies is essential, even if building businesses doesn\u2019t sound like \u201cconservation.\u201d Even more important is that local communities lead the work themselves and don\u2019t forever rely on external organizations like WWF for help, said Ranaivo Rasolofoson, a researcher at the University of Toronto and an expert on forest conservation in Madagascar.<\/p>\n Large environmental NGOs don\u2019t have a great track record of yielding control to people who live in the environments they\u2019re trying to protect. WWF, for its part, has made some grave mistakes<\/a> that put conservation at conflict with human rights. But here, the communities are choosing how they want to conserve the forest, and WWF is just there to provide support.<\/p>\n Nicole Razaiarimanana, the only female forest ranger in Amoron\u2019i Onilahy.<\/p>\n Rangers walk through the forest near Ifanato.<\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n