My name is Irina and I’m from Austria. I arrived at Reef Doctor about a week ago and I’m enjoying my stay a lot. The thing you do almost every day, accept the weather is bad, is diving. I tried to do my Open Water Diver in Austria, but I didn’t have the time to finish it, so I continued it in Madagascar with Dean, who is one of our Diving Instructors. The first three days I had to finish my Pool lessons and after that I was finally ready to explore the sea. We went to Rose Garden, which is about 5 meters deep and where you can see a lot of different fish. At first I was a little bit scared, because the water was much deeper than in the Pool and I didn’t want to touch anything or break anything with my fins. But after a few minutes I got relaxed and could really enjoy my first dive in Open Water. I was amazed to see so many fish and corals, even though the visibility wasn’t that good. After the first dive, we had a break on the boat and stayed at the surface for a few minutes to rest and to get our energy back. Drinking is very important, so make sure to always bring a bottle of water with you. The second dive wasn’t as much fun as the first one, because we had to practice some skills under water and on the surface, but we had a little time left to go explore the reef. I must say that I don’t really have difficulties while diving, because my buoyancy is very good and I try to breath very slowly to save energy, but there was one thing that really was hard for me. It was taking of the mask for one minute and then put it back on. I don’t really know why I had problems with this exercise, but probably the reason was that I didn’t see very well and that it is a different experience, you just have to make. Dean was very patient with me and always kept me calm. He is a very good Diving Instructor and Buddy as well. I really enjoy diving with him. It makes a lot of fun. Today, the 9^th of November, I finished my Open Water Diver and I’m really proud of myself. On Friday, I’m going to start with my Advanced Course and I’m really looking forward to it.

The thing I like most about this country is that you are making a lot of different experiences here and you can explore new things every day. Unfortunately time is passing very fast and I’m only here for another 4 weeks, but I’m looking forward to diving a lot and enjoying the days until then.

-Irina (Volunteer Nov ’11)

 

 Remote sensing of the oceans is a fascinating area of study and one whose uses and applications are continuously increasing. Remote sensing means using technology (such as satellites orbiting the Earth) to observe, thus taking data measurements indirectly or ‘remotely’. What is especially great about remote sensing is that it makes collecting data over a large area easy and effortless. It has particularly immense and vast applications for the observation of the oceans, as this subject of study is also particularly immense and vast.

As an intern for ReefDoctor, I am undertaking a research project analyzing satellite imagery of the Bay of Ranobe. The three datasets collected by the MODIS Aqua satellite that I am using for my study are sea surface temperature, chlorophyll-a (a proxy for productivity), and suspended matter. I have both a spatial and temporal plethora of data, with the datasets spanning daily images for the entire southwest coast of Madagascar from July 2002 to July 2011. My first order of business was to create monthly averages for the bay using the SeaDAS program, which is specific to the MODIS satellite. After data processing I used R, a statistical analysis program, to ascertain seasonal trends and trends for the whole time period. I also made a regional comparison between the northern and southern halves of the bay. An interesting result that I have is that the bay’s temperature seems to be increasing over the whole time period, while the productivity is decreasing. This trend would have great implications for the health of the bay and for the conservation work we are doing at ReefDoctor. I hope to continue this study by making a regional comparison between the Bay of Ranobe and other systems along the southwest coast; I am also planning on comparing the satellite data to data collected in the field by ReefDoctor.

Stay tuned to RD blog to find out what next implications are for the Bay!

-Lauren

At ReefDocotor our eyes are always turned toward the bay, our thoughts on the marine life that is the focus of our time here. It is very hard to look away. One occasion that I had to remind myself that there is a a zone of scientific interest outside coral and its fishy inhabitants was a trip to the fascinating mangrove ecosystem. On September 16th a group of 5 volunteers and I departed at 6:30 am to Honko, a mangrove restoration NGO located in Ambondrolava, a village about halfway between RD and Tulear. Getting there should have been a simple matter of taking the taxi brousse and getting off at Ambondrolava, however these journeys are never simple, especially when a taxi brousse is involved and no one on the trip had ever been to Honko before. At the insistence of the brousse driver and various other passengers, we hopped off at the side of a village, after being reassured that Honko was a short walk away. However, the village wasn’t Ambondrolava and the short walk turned into an hour. Yet what seemed to be a setback turned into one of those great, unplanned excursions. We were guided by an intrepid gaggle of Gasy children along a muddy path that followed the wet edges of the mangroves. Even though I pass by this mass of trees half drowning in water every time I take a taxi brousse to Tulear, this was the first time that I actually took a good look at them. We ambled along the path, enjoying that particular slant of light brought by a just risen sun. To our left were high grasses, and to our right, a creek which seemed to mark the place where dry land disappeared into water. The roots of the trees were invisible in the murky water, and we stopped often to take a picture of a bird flitting between branches shiny from moisture, or frogs and fish, hiding from view in the grasses. We were taken with the strange sight of the submerged trees, some in so deep that only the tops of the leaves were visible. Many were wondering, like me, why we had never noticed them before. When we finally arrived at Honko, we were all eager to learn more about the weird environment we had just trekked through.
Mangroves are essential to the well being of coastal ecosystems. As the border between ocean and land, they serve as a buffer between the two systems. They play the integral role of serving as a nursery for many fish species, guard against the erosion of the coast, and filter the brackish water. They also form a unique ecosystem and serve as a home to many flora and fauna that couldn’t live anywhere else. We walked along wooden walkways as our guide pointed out differences between tree species and told us about the traditional uses the local people had for these plants. We recognized the vondro reed, a plant familiar to us all as the building material for the huts we live in at ReefDoctor. Other plants had medicinal value, like a leaf that dulled pain, and another that relieved malaria symptoms. The wooden walkways turned into a path of raised earth, and most of us took off our flip-flops for the ease and pleasure of squelching through silty mud. Mudskippers tickled my bare feet and hitched a ride on my legs before disappearing beneath the water’s surface. A highlight of the tour was an incredible view from a wooden platform that we reached after climbing a flight of rickety stairs. From high up the water seemed like a mirror dotted by the green clusters of leaves. The reflection of the trees in the water gave the mangroves a muddled appearance and it was impossible to separate one from the other. The concept of trees growing half submerged suddenly didn’t seem so alien to me anymore. We left Honko with a new understanding of a coastal ecosystem just as important as the one we were studying, and the next time I took the taxi brousse to Tulear, I definitely did not let the mangroves slide by my eye without being noticed and marveled at.

- Lauren

Ponderings of a departing program manager

‘What have you learned?” she asks me batting a pair of inquisitive blue eyes. “What will you take with you? What would you like to tell our readers?”

“Whisking around your flashy editor’s pen in front of my eyes will not get you an answer”, I reply, leaning casually on the gasoil-burping generator. It’s only 9 AM and already there’s more soot on me than in a Guiness brewery. What have I learned…?

Marine conservation in Madagascar. One does not need an overdeveloped sense of imagination to romanticize this. I have done so myself when contemplating the notion of working for an environment nonprofit. Then again, caged between the four walls of a cubical sans natural light in my previous job, it didn’t take much to imagine yours truly saving the reef and an intern in distress, one sundowner at a time…

From the glittering blue ripples of the ocean he emerges, in full diving gear, knife between his teeth. This wind blows ominously. Walking steadily toward the shore he tows a boatful of cuffed rogue fishermen, pirates and corrupted officials. He slows down a bit, picking up a whimper of distress. “Here”, he says to his dolphin assistant, “watch the boat while I help this little guy.” To the cheering crowds of the villagers amassing the beach he untangles a weakened snowflake eel that got trapped in a mosquito net too thin to swim through. The eel, invigorated with the reintroduction of freedom and ever so thankful, jumps out of the water in this newfound burst of enthusiasm and gives a cheerful nibble in its savior’s ear. “You’re welcome, little bugger, now swim along”. He hands over the rogue fishermen to the authorities. “Make sure the closest thing to a net these guys ever get to is a pair of stockings in a Turkish bathhouse.” The marine conservationist has saved the day and the environment, again. Later on, he will debrief the team over a cool Campari and tonic sundowner…

“Oi!! Where did you go, buddy?” she yells at me, “wake up! The generator is on fire!!” Oh right, reality.

Business and political cynicism aside, it is still safe to say that ideological people motivate the conservation non-profit industry, and this coral-hugging lot will stop at nothing to make their dream of sustainable marine environment a reality. Nevertheless, as Einstein once said, reality is merely an illusion, albeit a persistent one, and sure enough, when it comes to working at the bay of Ranobe, sometimes it really is hard to tell one from another.

There is no argument that the overall goal of sustainable marine environment is noble, if not crucial, and the sooner the Bay of Ranobe is saved, the better. Ask the fisherman who left for sea at 6 AM and came back at noon with a catch of two underaged wrasses and a pale rabbit fish. Or, the 12-year-old girl gleaning through dirt for shellfish at low tide instead of going to school. The task is formidable, and there’s a lot of work to do. But before one sets out to save the corals and the fish, the proverbial dagger between teeth, one needs to have one’s material needs properly met.

Make sure that there is enough energy to fill tanks and power up the office, make sure people are fed, their salaries paid, their health taken care of, solve their problems, be available to everyone all the time, fight malaria, rats, bandits, dodgy riz cantonais and have a good time while you’re at it. Sorry, I can’t deal with that marine education presentation right now; I have a malnourished dying baby at my doorstep. Reality is harsh out here, and it’s all the more difficult when you need to focus on materializing your mission statement, the reason why we came out here in the first place. During my brief experience with RD I found that the biggest challenge for an administrator working in this environment is keeping the organization in a state of operational efficiency, and in some instances operation viability. 

But it’s not the operational aspect alone that’s needs to be addressed before you suit up and jump in for an hour interview with a Montipora coral. It’s working with the people involved, or stakeholders. It is not until you hand out some educational posters against illegal fishing to a seafood buffet owner, that you might feel liked hired entertainment. “Ok,” you think to yourself showing him the poster that took more Photoshop hours to design than any passerby would ever invest in reading, or mistaking for a menu, “you don’t have to agree with this, but busting a gut laughing is not exactly the reaction I would expect from someone whose livelihood comes from the bay.”

I came to southwest Madagascar all believing in the community-led modus operandi. Of course it’s community-led. It’s for their own good, right? No. Projecting your own convictions on the other is problematic if not condescending. Ask the French. Even Napoleon learned it the hard way with his North African ‘Mission Civilatrice’ (mission to civilize). I think that a stakeholder is anyone who cares enough to get involved, not just the local people, and if it means that the majority of them are foreign business owners, dive operations, restaurateurs, etc, so be it, as long as it advances our goals, i.e. improving the environment, notwithstanding their motivations and even at the expense of reduced local involvement. Easier said than done I know, but I hear that the trend in international sustainability nowadays is shifting away from the community-led concept and moving towards the money-generating economic driver. The booming eco-tourism industry is a testament to that trend. Perhaps it’s a direction ReefDoctor should look into more seriously.

Why should we trouble ourselves trying to change the behavior of others while we can achieve our goals by other means? If they change their behavior in the process or as a result (and they will, one does not come without the other), so much the better. This may be similar to the discussion of political vs. economic peace and the like. Would you invest your time and energy on changing people’s behavior hoping they will fix the environment, or would you take measures to create an economic infrastructure that will improve the situation first and then let people take heed. A bit of both simultaneously doesn’t seem to work, and one needs to occur before the other happens.

As far as your duties, you can’t take responsibility for other peoples’ lives, or thoughts or priorities. This rule applies for individuals as well as communities as a whole. We are here to save them in spite of themselves? Build their capacity? Make them understand? All good and well, but technical assistance is only as effective as the receiving end wants it to be. Soon enough will you realize that when you do take that responsibility for the stakeholders, you are perpetuating the dependency-based relationship with the community whose life you took upon yourself to improve. And is it really our role in here? Remember, you are a visitor here and that will never change. You will never be one of them nor will you fully understand their attitudes, psyche and motivations, no matter how many brochettes you can stomach, or how well you speak their language. You are a Vazaha (foreigner), and that, any cadeau-seeking two year-old would gladly tell you. You are here to bring equilibrium to a collapsing marine system, c’est tout. How? Whatever works, community-led or otherwise.

I also think that it’s very important to have the right people on board, on both sides, the stakeholders’ and ours. Skills and talent are important, but barely enough. There needs to be a genuine drive to accomplish something here. The kind of drive that pushes aside priorities that are immaterial, and of course unsullied work ethics – the importance of this one is only exceeded by its rarity. There is no shortage of people who come to volunteer or work here because it’s cool and low budget, the same way people on the stakeholder side are in for status, easy fixes and handouts. But who is keeping their eyes on the reef in the meantime, as the fish are getting scarcer and the nets smaller. This region is in the midst of a very serious situation. Again, easier said than done, we’re only humans, sometimes to a fault.

But seriously, whether you are a volunteer, intern, staff, or a visitor to RD, know that you are taking on some hard work and make sure you put your time here to good use because it will pass by very quickly. And the bigger the challenges, the more satisfaction you will derive in working towards meeting them. I wouldn’t hold my breath for that dolphin assistant, though. Even if it was around, it’s probably stuck in Malagasy customs.

I enjoyed my time with ReefDoctor immensely, and if anything, I am grateful for taking part of all the aspects of running an NGO, albeit the relatively short stay. It was a huge learning experience personally and of course professionally. That, after all, was my goal in coming to Madagascar. I learned that in order to advance the goal of any organization really, operational viability and efficiency is of the essence. The little things seem to get pushed aside when higher goals are on the agenda, and little things unattended often become big problems especially in an isolated environment like this.

It is difficult to tell you what to expect coming out here (bliss if you are into rice and beans). What’s for sure is that you will be working with a bunch of dedicated, hard working people who put the benefit of others and the well being of the environment before their own. This is the reality of the people working for RD, and it is one tough reality to live by, unless it’s meat day, in which case, every one for himself.

So, next time you see an administrator covered in gasoil fumes thick enough to stick a fork in them, give him a hug, tell him it’s ok, and that he is doing a good job.

Then, go ahead and fetch him a nice, cold Campari…

Omri

Ecole Francais kids get excited about coral...

What is the collective noun for a group of children? A gaggle?A giggle?A scribble?A squabble?And what about a group of children on the beach…?A scramble?

Why am I asking this question? Well, it ran through my mind on Tuesday afternoon as I watched a babble of eight to ten-year olds running down the beach in front of ReefDoctor, tossing off their clothes every which way like confetti and plunge shrieking into the water. As they splashed, pushed and pulled at each other with slightly hysterical abandon I was on high alert for the first injury. Five minutes I think was all it took before a darling and highly precocious little girl wearing a sparkly turquoise two-piece swimming costume replete with frills, came limping out of the shallows.

“Madame, c’est pas grave…. Maisc’est mal.” Sheproffered her big toe to me, so that I might get a good look at the little cut. She took the sting of the alcohol and Betadine like a real trooper, unlike the next little boy who gripped his wrist as though his hand were about to fall off as I cleaned out a shell-inflicted scrape on his palm.

All patched up and proud of their sea-given grazes we were finally ready to get on with things.

For it turns out that every year ReefDoctor welcomes a group of children from the College Francais in Tulear for an afternoon of educational activities. This year we had twenty-one of them, and Christina had organised a seriously cool activity to help them understand the importance of zooxanthellae; the algae that lives in a symbiotic relationship with corals and provides them with food and their colour.

We shepherded the squawking group up the beach (once they had been herded back into their clothes), from which they each collected items that they thought belonged to something that had lived in the ocean. We showed them into the museum where we talked a little bit about living shells and their role in the marine ecosystem and about dead corals and shells as important beach builders.

Up at the IHSM building the children made piles of the objects that they had collected, sorting them into groups of shells, coral, and algae. Bleached bits of turtle carapace engendered wide eyes.

Christina started telling them about the coral reef. We soon realised that these boisterous tots knew far more than we had given them credit for. They could name types of coral; rose coral, mushroom coral, brain coral and table coral. We looked at each other in alarm – was our little activity going to be too simplistic?

We explained that a reef was like a city, with polyps creating ‘buildings’ to live in; their skeletons.

“But what happens when the polyp grows up? What happens if it gets too big?” Good question, little girl with the serious eyebrows.

“They can split into two new polyps.”

“Like a mummy when she wants to have a baby?”

“Yeees… Something like that (!)”

But once we had split them into groups and armed each with handfuls of pencils and a big sheet of paper they were captivated, engrossed in the drawing of coralline shapes, riveted in that inimitable way that only children occupied with a creative task can be, and the awkward questions soon died down.

They were to draw the outline of a coral reef, without colour. Was this reef alive or dead?Dead. Why? Because it has no colour, so the algae has gone and the coral can’t make enough food anymore. But, Madame, can the algae come back again? Wow. Indeed it can, petit, indeed it can. These kids were not to be underestimated.

And so they revived the reef; colouring in their monochrome outlines with hues and tints that represented the life-giving function of the microscopic zooxanthellae.

After this, a quiz. In teams of two, eight questions to be answered against the clock.And more superbly intelligent questions throwing spanners in the works.

“How big is a polyp, Madame?”

“How old are the reefs?”

“Why are the corals on the beach now?”

Winning teams got a small prize, a book of their choice from a limited selection. But the biggest thrill of all was the dark, quiet little girl with the enormous, cheeky eyes who got full marks all by herself and chose my favourite book, the one about fairies. She will go far, that one.

Before they left they encountered the long-suffering Redneck (one of our team of hounds, for whom they coined the term ‘hangdog expression’) and had him cornered in a mass of patting, petting hands, warnings of fleas and ticks making not a blind bit of difference. The interlude provided a good opportunity to spot ‘souvenirs’ that had somehow made their way into bags and pockets; shells, corals and pieces of the most impressive turtle shell; this despite our instructions that all beach items should be replaced where they were found.

“But why? Why can’t I take just a few?”

“Because the beach needs them, more than you do.”

“But why, Madame?”

“Because if we all take a piece of the beach home with us then soon there will be no beach left. And then what would happen?”

“It would disappear. And then would those trees disappear too?”

“Yes, petit.”

“And those houses too?”

“Yes, petit”

“And then me….? If the beach disappears, will I disappear too?”

Oh, why not drive the message home… “Yes, petit, we all will.”

And so we bid them adieu, hopeful that we had made some small difference in their pint-sized lives and quietly optimistic for the days when the future of our oceans would be determined by the adult versions of these indomitable, bright-eyed little people.

Alice Grainger

Dive Officer

resident pipefish

As very much a right-brain diver, my appreciation of a reef system relies heavily on an aesthetic sense; on colours, movement, and the patterns created by coral cover and streaming cascades of fish. This, obviously, is not the most scientific way in which to gauge the health and diversity of a patch of ocean. And yet, as human beings, our sense of beauty is intrinsically connected to our subconscious ability to assess the condition of our environment and the organisms that inhabit it; we instinctively choose a genetically appropriate mate based on the ratios of their physical features, we learnt to determine what fruits were ripe and edible based on their colour, we can infer the well-being of a plant just by looking at the shape, texture, and hue of its leaves, and environments that are potentially bad for our health tend to assault some of our finer senses and repulse us.

And so I am sure that this is why, when diving barren, monochrome reefs that have been badly damaged and are being colonised by bacteria and algae, something registers as deeply disturbing. And I am sure that this subconscious, aesthetic evaluation is also why, when diving at Vato Soa, the soul sings; aware somehow that this place is still enjoying a rich diversity of habitation.

Vato Soa, or ‘Good Rock’, is a site that lies roughly seven kilometres north of the ReefDoctor base. It is shallow, as with most sites on the interior, and, on a good day, the water can be exceptionally clear and delightfully blue. It comprises a triangular formation of three relatively small patches of coral, the tops of which do not extend more than two or three meters from the sea floor. Vato Soa has, somehow, so far escaped the deleterious effects of over fishing, coral bleaching, and invasive species.

Crowning the reef, huge, dense gardens of foliose Montipora; whirling helix formations best appreciated from above, look like creations inspired by M. C. Escher. Schooling yellow back fusiliers dip and dart overhead. Crevices hide all kinds of elusive fishy treasures such as leaf scorpion fish and crocodile flatheads, numerous species of nudibranch and shy moray eels. A resident octopus guards his coralline castle, peeking out over the top of shells and rocks meticulously collected and arranged to ridge the lip of his lair.  Near pristine Porites bommies are enveloped in clouds of sweepers and hinge-beak zebra shrimp scuttle around the bubbling boundaries of huge Plerogyra colonies. Huge pipefish up to twenty centimetres long inhabit the sea grass bordering the site, twiggy heads peering out over the algal canopy.

Getting to Vato Soa requires quite a lot of petrol, which means that we don’t dive it as often as we would like, but it also means that a dive there is a real treat. Thankfully, it is one of our survey sites.

So, on this day, while the urchin predation assessment team were happily analysing and gathering baited lines of urchins, I was to change the data logger with my dive buddy, Kajsa. We were prepared for the worst, having recently had a rather frustrating data-logger ‘session’ at Ankaranjelita.

Ah, changing the data loggers. At this point I feel I need to make a small digression in order  to familiarise those of you who may not have not have been fortunate enough to take part in this process. The data logger is a wonderful little piece of technology that, once carefully and securely situated, tied firmly to a suitably exposed piece of substrate, will record for you all the information about light and temperature fluctuations that your scientific, research orientated heart could desire. They can be out merrily memorising for around three months, after which they need to be brought back to be relieved of all this data, and another one installed in their place. Quite impressive for a little two inch square piece of plastic. Simple, I hear you cry, so why this hullabaloo?

Because, in addition to being nifty little gatherers of information, the humble data logger is also an accomplished gatherer of algae, and while out on mission will cleverly disguise itself as a living piece of reef. These masters of deception, however, are not always so adept at blending into their surroundings, with some finding themselves so conspicuous as to attract the attentions of passing Vezo fishermen with an eye for foreign technology. So, to cut a long story short, these diminutive instruments can be a real bugger to find.

Incredibly, this time it only took us about 70 minutes to locate the elusive article and so we finished off the air in our second tank with a truly enchanting pootle around this charming site.

We made the acquaintance of the largest red-mouth grouper I have ever had the pleasure of meeting (we have named him Pete), we ‘ooh’d’ and ‘ahh’d’ at scorpion fish and a crocodile flathead, we stared transfixed at a whirling vortex of glassfish. Running low on air we headed back towards the boat; stopping briefly to direct the grateful urchin team to the last of the lines (you’re very welcome). Arriving at the surface we exchanged happy smiles, and immediately began sharing the highlights of our splendid little dive.

Also resting at the surface, just twenty meters or so from us, were two pirogues. We raised hands in greeting and began to fin back towards Faye. This position afforded us a premium view of the fishermen as they began dropping their huge nets into the water; fishing gear constructed from several hundred square meters of mosquito netting. And as the pirogues made deft manoeuvres, encircling the entire site in the lethal mesh, a site where, mere seconds before, we had been swimming around in a state of blissful amnesia, the reality of the pressures facing the Bay of Ranobe were once again brought crashing home.

Nets of this kind are unbelievably destructive, indiscriminately gathering juveniles as well as by-catch such as damsel fish. It was heart breaking to motor away from the site, leaving behind who-knows-what ichthyologic devastation. Visions of our venerable red-mouth grouper kept popping into my mind, and I prayed that he would have the sense to find a deep crevice and stay put for an hour or so.

From a position of privilege and vegetarianism, it is all very well to feel a sense of tragedy after such an explicit encounter. And yet, daily, we see evidence of the extreme poverty that characterises this region of Madagascar, with people driven, through lack of opportunity and education, to such unsustainable practices in order to survive.

Last week we made a return visit to Vato Soa, and I did catch a fleeting glimpse of old red-mouth Pete. It seemed he had outwitted the nets once again, for at his size, it is more than likely that he has seen nets such as those many, many times in the past. Given this probability, Vato Soa does not appear to be suffering too badly. At first glance, fish density in general did not seem to be much affected since the last poignant visit, but it would require more stringent monitoring to ascertain just how well the site is handling the fishing pressure. My intuitive, aesthetic sense tells me that there is still hope for this supposedly highly resilient patch of reef, but, as the science team would say, this kind of thing needs to be quantifiable.

Alice Grainger

Dive Officer

If anyone out there was hoping to make an unexpected return visit to ReefDoctor in the near future, you might want to pay attention.

For if, after the first of June, you follow the winding track out of the village of Ifaty, past the IHSM, and then turn up the long driveway marked with a signpost announcing ReefDoctor in faded yellow and blue, if you were to pull up outside the house with the blue-stencilled tiger shark adorning the water tank, you would find the place devoid of ReefDoctor staff and volunteers. We cannot say at this point who you might find there in our stead. But whoever it is, they will not be us.

Don’t fret, we’re not going far. In fact, we are moving right next door. So if you were to simply turn up, I am sure you would find us easily. You would be directed to walk down to the beach and then make a left turn towards the village. Just after the volunteer hut you might remember four rather fancy looking A-frame bungalows with mirrored windows facing the sea. That’s us.

The new site means a serious upgrade for ReefDoctor. It is walled on three sides (a vast improvement on our current security situation), we will have solar and wind power, just like a real conservation NGO should. The living conditions for staff will be much improved by the addition of flushing toilets and water that flows from taps (!), the science team will have their own offices where they will be able to get on with their serious science business in peace and quiet, Shane will have a ‘real house’ (that he will be sharing with the administration office), and (drum roll….I have saved the best for last), we are in the process of building a new dive shed. From scratch. Gone are the days of clutter and cockroach infested wetsuits, we are ushering in a new era of glass bricks and custom built equipment racks. Even the booties will be off the floor. We are all very excited.

So please, if you do come looking for us, do bear in mind that while our new premises might seem intimidatingly slick, we are still the same folks at heart, and will be very happy indeed to see you again.

Alice Grainger

Dive Officer

Rose Garden is still throwing up all kinds of surprises. Our urchin predation assessment has just rolled around once again, with staff and volunteers spending two days collecting and spearing urchins, stringing them up to entice various fish with an easy meal, and then looking at the remains of their spiny little bodies to figure out what sorts of urchin-eaters there are out there. And of course Rose Garden, the marine reserve, is one of our survey sites.

We have moored up on the north eastern side of the reef and I’m sunning myself on the boat. The volunteers have located the lines without my help, the viz. is good, the conditions clement. It’s a rare chance to take 20 minutes in the sunshine, and I’m teaching Manjo, our legendary boat captain, some maths.

As the urchin team heads back, one of them spots something. “There’s a guitar shark down here!” Really…?!I’m sceptical and consider staying on the boat; warm and dry.

But then I recall Kris, long term volunteer and excellent SCUBA student, telling me about a guitar fish that had supposedly visited him at Ankaranjelita while he was waiting on his knees for me to run through a navigation exercise with another student. I was sceptical then, too. But curiosity gets the better of me; two suspected guitar sharks in a week? This needs confirmation.

So in I get (the water turns out to be quite nice, actually, not too cold at all), mask fins and all, and yes, there is indeed a young guitar shark resting buried up to his eyeballs in the sand at the bottom of the mooring line. Like gannets we dive down, taking turns for a closer look.  The water is only about six meters deep and so the free-diving is relatively easy, but we pass a one kilo block between us so that we can stay on the bottom for a few seconds longer. The guitar shark appears unperturbed by our presence, seemingly quite confident in the infallibility of his sandy disguise.

Guitar fish, or guitar sharks, are members of the Elasmobranch sub-class, a taxonomic group that encompasses all rays and sharks. This is not a common sighting. So far, the only other members of this category that I have encountered here have been rays; blue spotted, torpedo, and one suspected coffin ray.

I gently waft the sand from one of his pectoral fins to determine colour and pattern so that we can identify what species this individual belongs to. I reveal a small patch of greyish brown skin dotted with darker-margined pale spots. Again, no reaction from the fish in the sand; confident little Elasmobranch….

Guitar fish are so named for the obvious reason that their bodies are shaped like electric guitars of the glam-rock variety. They have long, pointed, flattened snouts which taper back to wide pectoral fins. Pelvic fins are also flat and protrude just behind the pectorals along the sides of their bodies. Their dorsal fins are situated far back on the tail; eyes are close together on the top of their compressed heads, giving them a slightly woebegone appearance. And while their mouths and nostrils are tucked underneath them against the sand, as with many rays, they move like sharks with sinuous stokes of their tail and caudal fin. These wonderful hybrids tend to prefer sandy, shallow, inshore coastal habitats such as sea grass meadows and mangroves, where they can prey on crustaceans, molluscs, and fish.

The guitarfish family comprises 4 genera and over 40 species.  Back at base, identification becomes tricky. The pattern of spots is similar to the Ringed guitarfish Rhinobatos annulatus, yet the body shape does not look quite right. Our fish has wider, more pronounced, ray-like pectoral fins. The White-spotted guitarfish seems to have a more similar pectoral morphology, but the distribution does not fit. Trawling through the web, we come across reports of Rhinobatus petiti, a rare and as yet undescribed species of guitar fish that has been caught only once off the Toliara coast. With no morphological description or photograph to consult, we briefly entertain dreams of having encountered a relatively new and undocumented species of elasmobranch. Unlikely.

So the jury is still out. We are going to have to run into this odd-shaped elasmobranch once again, this time while carrying a camera. From now on, it looks like I will be spending most of my dives at Rose Garden with my eyes glued to the sand….

Alice Grainger

Dive Officer

It has been posited that successful conservation and sustainable development relies on partnerships and networks, on outreach and the inclusion of other individuals and organisations with a similar mission. With this in mind, it could also be said that it’s all about ‘who you know’. And if this is the case, then ReefDoctor has recently made some friends, who, one day, could potentially be occupying some very high places indeed.

Just a few short weeks ago, we were contacted by a group from the ‘Ecole des Hautes Etudes Commerciales de Paris’, or the HEC to you and me. A little digging around on the internet has revealed this to be quite a highly regarded institution, consistently ranked by the Financial Times as the best business school in Europe, and, if taking into account the number of Fortune 500 companies with an HEC graduate as their CEO or equivalent, it would be ranked as the 4^th higher education institute in the world.

Attending this salubrious institution is a veritable Benetton of Masters Students, all in the swan-song stages of their Msc in Sustainable Development. For their crowning edification, they were to be coming to Madagascar to take in the gamut of development and conservation projects that this iconic country has spawned, and such a trip would of course not be complete without a visit to ReefDoctor.

As an added incentive, the group were offered the chance to dive Rose Garden with us in order to see, up close and personally, the marine reserve in all its glory. Apparently, of the thirty-seven, eight were certified divers, and we were quietly confident that with a little preparation we could happily accommodate them. All we needed was confirmation of the date and time of their arrival, but as the proposed day drew ever nearer, still no word. Malagasy internet strikes again.

Finally, Saturday afternoon, and low and behold they have arrived in Mangily eager to meet us. We are supposed to be taking them out the very next day. So, suited and booted in the very best beach-living apparel, ReefDoctor’s distinguished representatives make the short walk up the beach to our neighbouring tourist hub, armed with PADI Liability Releases.

At the hotel Tongasoa, however, things become a little more complicated. Given the chance of making an introductory dive (a DSD in PADI parlance), a whole host of eager students flock to our little table. Not the types to be fazed by a challenge, ReefDoctor’s delegation performs some logistical calculations worthy of Hadrian, and decide that yes, we can take out ten DSDs the next day, and yes, we can also take the eight certified divers the day after that.

Cue – mad dash around the extremely helpful dive shops of Mangily (credits here to Jean-Pierre of Atimo diving, and Anne of Grand Blue) to pick up some extra kit, and we are on.

Time and tides really don’t wait for any man (or woman). With the diving here ruled by the dramatic ebbs and flows of the Moon-managed Sea, we had to be ready and out by 6:45 the next morning, with all divers having signed the plethora of necessary forms and been fitted for gear. And, by Jove, if we didn’t manage to do just that.

With the sun at our backs, our little boat Faye overflowing with fourteen sets of equipment and two diving instructors, and our enthusiastic contingent of students safely ensconced within a veritable flotilla of pirogues, we set off for the Rose Garden.

Here, perhaps, is the right place to introduce to you one of the latest additions to the ReefDoctor team. You will notice that I mentioned two diving instructors in the previous paragraph. The dive team has swelled, increasing its ranks by 100%, and this new bubble blower is swell indeed. Simone comes to us from South Africa, bringing with her an impressive professionalism and commitment to marine conservation, with a healthy dollop of peace and love on the side. This little experience was definitely a baptism of fire, and boy, did she make it through with flying colours.

For we were not blessed with the most benign of maritime conditions; HEC’s visit had coincided with the full moon, meaning the biggest tides and therefore strongest currents of the month.

Aided by our Volunteer Coordinator and Dive Master in Training Jon, and Omri (Project Coordinator and Dive Master extraordinaire), we managed to get our little flock of divers into their equipment and hanging on to the rope in preparation for the descent. We ran through the basic exercises one last time, and, with just a few standard teething troubles on the surface, down we went.

Visibility was low, and our bubbles streamed back behind our heads as, hand over hand and equalising gently, we slowly made our way down the mooring line to the sandy sea floor.

As a diving instructor, you are often granted a glimpse into a person’s psyche in a way that possibly only people who have known them from infancy have ever had. Taking people out for their first open water SCUBA experience is always a thrill; introducing them to the underwater world, shepherding them through their fears.

And this group was no exception. Once on the bottom, each handled the experience in their own unique manner; some excitedly darting about after colourful fish, others sticking nice and close to the instructor. Some in their excitement forgetting to breathe and drifting towards the surface, others floating along as though they had been born to dive.

Looking around, I couldn’t help but muse, would this awestruck chick, standing in the water column like a mermaid, medusa-like tresses streaming around her head, one day be the director of UNDP? Or would this svelte young Frenchman with a seemingly natural talent for buoyancy, become chief environmental lobbyist for the EU in Brussels? And what of this gentle young man staring at me with a mixture of wonder and mild alarm? Is this the next Chief of Party for the project that will finally combat AIDs in Africa?

As we headed back to the boat, I was hoping that despite the conditions the group had had a positive experience. My fears proved to be unfounded; one of the best things about a first dive is that it is just that, the very first dive, and people have nothing with which to compare it. It is also usually one of the best dives that anyone will ever make, with memory tending to brighten colours, calm choppy seas, and boost the water temperature. Many of these novice divers were so enamoured with the whole affair, that they went right out and did another intro dive with Anne at Grand Blue the very next day.

The following day we were far more organised. We had all the kit, the pirogues were ready to go, and this time we had only six certified divers. Conditions were less demanding, low tide was later, and we managed an hour on the bottom, including a long visit with Rose Garden’s most talented architect, a very large and placid octopus who will sit happily in the middle of her enormous den, benignly peering out at tourists from the other realm.

That afternoon we invited the entire HEC group to ReefDoctor for a mini presentation, an overview of our mission and our projects. As would befit an audience of future leaders of international aid and development, we were asked a multitude of intelligent and well informed questions, some controversial, and we hope that, in response, we were able to provide sufficient insight into some of the challenges and opportunities that determine the success of organisations such as this one. We talked for quite a while, until their driver started to become anxious about the failing light for the group’s onward journey to Tulear. It looked as if they had had a stimulating time, and we continued to field questions all the way back to the bus.

I trust that this is not the last we will hear from these motivated and conscientious individuals, and I am quite certain that some of them will continue to develop their love affair with the underwater world. After such a positive first contact, we would definitely welcome the chance to host another inspiring posse from the HEC.

Alice Grainger

Dive Officer

Dragon Fish (a.k.a. Sea Moth)

Monogamous Sea Moths at the Bay of Ranobe

Coming to the Bay of Ranobe, I knew that ReefDoctor was here for a reason; that the Bay was seriously in need of some TLC to mitigate the effects of a whole host of pressures, both natural and man-made. Even so, the first few dives on the degraded interior of the lagoon were disturbing, especially to a person used to diving reef systems in relatively good condition. And yet, even after six months, a recent submarine encounter showed me that the diving here is still full of surprises; despite everything, there are rare and cryptic species eking out an existence in the Bay. Given that this ecosystem may be on the verge of collapse, to be allowed a glimpse of something special, under these circumstances, really is a gift.

Rose Garden hosts a diverse array of species in spite the dramatic bleaching event of June last year and it seems as if fast growing Acorapora corals are colonising substrate laid bare by the demise of the Montipora (rose coral) that gave the marine reserve its name.

Earlier this week, I took some advanced dive students to Rose Garden for a buoyancy clinic. We swam away from the main reef to find a sandy patch surrounded by sea grass on which to practice skills. I set up the training site, and went to place the final lead weight on the sand, when a minute movement revealed a Pegasus sea moth sitting quietly on the bottom, making every conceivable effort to blend with the sandy sea floor. Commonly known as the ‘dragon fish’, sea moths are rare and notoriously hard to spot. In other parts of the world some famous dive sites are frequented specifically by virtue of their hosting these funny looking creatures. I have personally only ever seen them twice before.

Often found in monogamous pairs, the sea moth spends its days ambling over sand or rubble patches, preferably near sea grass beds, preying on diminutive crustaceans and other organisms. About four inches long from the tip of its trunk-like snout to the end of its stubbly tail, their rotund body is covered with bony plates, and their wing-like pectoral fins, usually concertinaed by their sides, facilitate a bumbling locomotion. Very excitedly, I called the others over to have a look. As we swam away, moving training equipment so as to avoid any further stress to the little beast, I watched it shoot off as if fired from a pistol. I was not aware that they could move that fast….

Encounters such as these are vastly more precious here than they ever have been in other places, where coming across unusual sea life is often taken for granted. No, this tiny, odd looking creature does not perhaps carry the same cachet as, say, the mighty manta or whale shark, yet for experienced divers everywhere, such unassuming and well camouflaged species do have the ability to get the heart racing and the hand itching for the shutter button. To find this little treasure inhabiting the outskirts of our own small marine reserve is exciting indeed. It is more than just an interesting find, it is an occasion for renewed hope; a window into the persisting diversity of the Bay of Ranobe and the potential that this system may have for recovery.

Alice Grainger

ReefDoctor Dive Officer