I’m back in Madagascar, twelve years after my first sailing voyage through this archipelago

Revisiting this enchanting coast, I’m once again moved by the ineffable beauty of its self-sustaining villages – intimate communities living in harmony with their surroundings, untouched by modern conventions. 

I was 27 on that first voyage, a wide-eyed sailor and a yaoung captain. A couple of years earlier, I had started my first business, a travel company called the Sailing Collective. The mission was simple: explore the world by sea and invite curious travelers to join the adventure. Together, we set sail to remote islands, immersing ourselves in nature and the unfiltered rhythms of local cultures.

Returning now, years later, sailing the same route, I find myself reflecting on the many places I’ve visited since–some reshaped by hurricanes, others transformed by tourism and global connectivity. The memory of that first journey through Madagascar remained with me all this time. I hoped to find it still as I remembered: in quiet balance with its environment.

Our ten-day voyage took us around Nosy Be, the largest island in Madagascar.

We continued north to the distant islands of Nosy Mitsio, home to five remote villages. We sailed south along the west coast and onward to Nosy Iranja and the bays of mainland northwest Madagascar. Remarkably, the communities that we interacted with continue to thrive, relying only on resources from the immediate environment. 

On the final day of our voyage, we anchored off the Ampohana Peninsula, near a quiet village of about twenty homes. As the night sky dissolved into pale blues and muted pinks, village fishermen paddled silently past our catamaran. Sunrise signals the beginning of the day’s most vital ritual: the pursuit of food for the community.

One by one, the fishermen launched from the shore, each alone in a narrow wooden canoe, setting off into the stillness to provide for the village.

As the morning unfolded, I turned toward the bay and saw the fisherman spread across the water, each hand-hewn canoe bearing a single canvas sail, nets unfurled and drifting beneath the surface. It was more than a means of survival: a daily ritual, a quiet choreography inherited through generations, practiced not just out of need, but as an enduring act of devotion to the life of their community.

We took the dinghy ashore to walk through the village.

With the men at sea and the women tending to the communal farm, it was quiet, except for a few children playing near a small schoolhouse. Like many we visited, the village struck a delicate balance: simple, self-sustaining, and built with intention. At its center stood a mango tree, both landmark and lifeline, offering shade and shared fruit. Homes were made of woven branches and vines, with no nails or metal, each surrounded by small gardens growing herbs and chilies. 

As we wandered toward the beach, we heard the faint sound of music: a rhythmic strumming paired with a gentle voice. The melody grew clearer as we reached a thatched beachfront hut. A man sat on the porch facing the sea, strumming a wooden instrument, his voice harmonizing softly with the breeze and the lapping waves. He smiled as we approached, an invitation to stay and listen.

The experience left a lasting impression, a sense that harmony with the environment remains intact. We returned to the beach, boarded the dinghy and headed back to the boat in silence. We were lost in thought and moved by the quiet strength of the culture. To us, Nosy Be felt like a rare place where balance still endures.

Published in Open Spaces Magazine Issue no. 5, the Balance issue Fall 2025