The road to success is riddled with potholes, and I have well and truly blown a flat tyre.
My LIA project has taken me to the Madagascar Research and Conservation Institute on Nosy Komba, Madagascar. To start with the positives, this has been—and continues to be—the most beautiful place I’ve ever had the opportunity to visit. As for the negatives… there are a few, but we’ll get to those later.
At the research camp we conduct biodiversity surveys of the island’s reptiles, lemurs and birds. Different departments within the organisation contribute to conservation in different ways: Turtle, Marine, Construction, Teaching and Forest, which is where I have been volunteering.
Working across a wide range of objectives meant the first six weeks were a tremendous learning curve. Every day was different. One morning we could be hiking through the forest collecting ecological data, while the next we’d be working in the plant nursery or assisting with habitat restoration. In Forest, our focus has been learning to identify and monitor the reptiles, lemurs and birds that live on Nosy Komba. At first every gecko looked the same, every bird call blended together and every lemur seemed impossible to identify. Now I’m beginning to appreciate just how much diversity exists within a relatively small area of forest.
Night hikes were probably the most hit-or-miss spectacle of the trip. From seeing the famous baobab trees to sleeping on the floor of a church, and somewhere in between visiting a factory that produced chocolate from freshly harvested cocoa beans, every hike seemed to have something completely unexpected.
It seems like the sights themselves—and the overall idea of a “night hike”—would be the major entertainment factor, right? But I found that the eeriness of the darkness and the silence that followed it were the most captivating parts of the experience. The way the endless shadows stalked you from every side. The way each step remained unknown until you were already taking it. And, of course, the life that only seemed to emerge once darkness had settled. Spiders, centipedes and countless other insects roamed the forest floor while the calls of lemurs and birds echoed through the canopy above. It felt as though the entire forest had suddenly come alive around you.
Before the darkness, though, came the overwhelming explosion of colour that painted the sky. Deep pinks and vibrant oranges stretched across the horizon in streaks, the opening act before the night that followed.
The hikes weren’t just about experiencing the forest after dark—they were also an important part of our fieldwork. Armed with head torches, we searched for nocturnal reptiles and amphibians including geckos, chameleons, frogs and snakes. Every animal we encountered was carefully recorded. We measured its snout-vent length (SVL), which measures the body from the tip of the nose to the vent while excluding the tail, providing a standard measurement that can be compared across individuals. We also recorded how far the animal was from the observer, how high above the ground it was, and what surface it was found on, whether that was a tree trunk, branch, leaf or the forest floor. Collecting this information helps researchers monitor populations over time, identify habitat preferences and better understand the health of the island’s ecosystems.
Early mornings back home are considered “the end of my life” by around 70% of people. But out here? The Madagascan sunrises are ethereal.
As the opening act, they aren’t quite as dramatic as the fiery colours of a sunset. Instead, soft pastel oranges, pinks and purples slowly spread across the sky before fading into a clear blue. It’s a much gentler way for the day to begin, but no less beautiful.
Once the sun had risen and the colours disappeared, it was time to get to work. One of our regular morning jobs involved watering the hundreds of native plants growing in the nursery. It sounds simple—and it is—but it also plays a surprisingly important role in conservation. Many of these seedlings are destined for reforestation projects around Nosy Komba, helping restore degraded forest and create habitat for the island’s wildlife. Keeping them alive through Madagascar’s intense heat gives them the best possible chance of surviving once they’re planted out into the wild.
The nursery contains a wide range of native species, all carefully labelled and monitored throughout their growth. Regular watering, weeding and maintenance ensure the healthiest plants survive until they are ready to be transplanted. It’s easy to overlook work like this because it doesn’t involve trekking through dense jungle or handling wildlife, but conservation depends just as much on consistency as it does on adventure. Every watering can filled, every invasive weed removed and every seedling cared for contributes towards protecting the forests that species such as black lemurs, chameleons and countless endemic birds depend upon.
One of the most important reasons for the reforestation work is to help restore the island’s natural ecosystem and encourage wildlife to return to its natural behaviours. Over time, the nearby lemur park has unintentionally conditioned many of the black lemurs to spend most of their time around the tourist area, where they are regularly fed bananas by guides. While this provides visitors with an incredible opportunity to see the animals up close, it also reduces the lemurs’ need to forage for native fruits throughout the forest. As the island’s primary seed dispersers, black lemurs play a vital role in maintaining healthy forests by spreading the seeds of native plants as they move through the canopy. When they rely on human-provided food instead, this natural process is disrupted, reducing the regeneration of indigenous tree species. By restoring native forest and increasing the availability of natural food sources, reforestation helps create an environment where lemurs can become more self-sufficient and once again fulfil their essential role in regenerating the island’s forests through natural seed dispersal.
Unfortunately, this is where the story begins to take a turn.
When I first arrived, I imagined spending my placement contributing to meaningful ecological research. The reality, however, has been far more complicated. Despite the organisation having operated on Nosy Komba for over a decade, the research programme is astonishingly underdeveloped. Over thirteen years of research has taken part here, but very little has been organised into usable datasets. Long-term monitoring is only as valuable as the data behind it, and without consistent record-keeping it becomes incredibly difficult to identify meaningful ecological trends or measure the success of conservation efforts over time.
Thankfully, I wasn’t trying to tackle that challenge alone. One of the research staff members, Oriel, shared my frustration with the state of the data and was equally committed to improving it. Together we spent time discussing ways to standardise datasets and the way the data was collected to build a system that future researchers could actually use. For the first time, it felt like there was a genuine opportunity to leave the research programme in a better state than we had found it.
Then Oriel left.
With him went the support and authority needed to make those changes happen. As a volunteer, I could suggest ideas, but I couldn’t implement them without the backing of permanent staff. Despite the work we had already begun, there was little appetite to continue it once he was gone. It was incredibly frustrating to know there was a path towards improving over a decade’s worth of research, yet be unable to move it forward simply because the one person in a position to champion it was no longer there.
As if that wasn’t enough, my own health decided to stage a protest.
A few weeks into the placement I became seriously ill. What initially seemed like just another tropical stomach bug quickly escalated into something far more severe. By the time I spoke with my doctor back home, his response was less than reassuring—he told me he wished I had gone straight to hospital. Hearing that after the fact was a sobering reminder of just how vulnerable you can be when you’re living on a small island with limited medical facilities, thousands of miles from home. Thankfully I recovered, but it forced me to slow down at a time when I desperately wanted to make the most of every opportunity.
Then, because apparently the universe wasn’t quite finished adding plot twists, there was a fire.
Thankfully, nobody was seriously injured, but it was another reminder of how quickly things could unravel. By this point it almost felt as though every time one problem was solved, another was waiting around the corner.
The greatest challenge, however, wasn’t the illness or the fire. It was slowly realising that the organisation I had travelled halfway across the world to support didn’t always seem to reflect the values it promoted.
Before arriving, I imagined joining a conservation programme where research, habitat restoration and wildlife protection were the clear priorities. Instead, I often found myself questioning whether conservation really came first. Many volunteers arrive after raising significant amounts of money and paying substantial programme fees, believing those funds are directly supporting research and conservation on the island. Yet the reality on the ground often felt very different.
The Malagasy staff who keep the project running every day are some of the hardest-working people I have met. They spend long days maintaining the nursery, restoring forest, guiding research teams and caring for the facilities, all while receiving very modest pay. Their commitment to protecting their island is undeniable, and they deserve far more recognition—and support—than they currently receive.
I also found it difficult to understand where many of the donations actually went. Projects regularly lacked equipment, research struggled because of missing resources and basic infrastructure often seemed neglected. Volunteers are encouraged to fundraise for conservation, yet the impact of those donations was not always visible. Whether due to poor management, a lack of transparency or competing priorities, it was difficult not to wonder how much of the money was reaching the projects it was intended to support.
Perhaps the biggest disappointment was realising just how much potential exists here.
Nosy Komba is an extraordinary place. Its forests are home to remarkable biodiversity, its people care deeply about protecting it and there are passionate individuals working incredibly hard to make a difference. With better organisation, stronger scientific leadership and greater transparency, the work here could achieve so much more.
Despite everything, I don’t regret coming. If anything, this experience has taught me far more than I expected. I came here thinking conservation was simply about protecting wildlife. Instead, I’ve learned that successful conservation depends just as much on good leadership, reliable science, honest management and investing in the people doing the work as it does on planting trees or collecting data.
My LIA project certainly hasn’t gone according to plan. In many ways it has been far messier, more frustrating and more eye-opening than I ever imagined. But perhaps that’s the greatest lesson of all. Conservation isn’t just about saving ecosystems. It’s also about building organisations capable of protecting them. And sometimes, the biggest obstacle isn’t the forest itself—it’s everything happening behind the scenes.