A day with the Vezo

On our yearly journey to Madagascar, reaching the coast always brings a specific kind of excitement.

After more than ten days on the road, trekking and exploring, the turquoise waters of the Ankasy lagoon mean finally taking a dip and washing off the accumulated dust.

More importantly, it means spending time with the Vezo fishermen of the nearby village.

The Vezo are renowned among Madagascar's tribes for their deep knowledge of the sea and their mastery of sailing. Until recently, most were semi-nomadic, following fish migrations along the coast in their dugout canoes.

For the Vezo, identity is rooted entirely in daily life on the water. The name itself translates to "to paddle", or "people of the coast". Children learn to navigate the swell and handle a pirogue at the same time as they learn to walk.

Their work on the ocean is guided by ancestral tradition and strict taboos, the infamous Malagasy fady, that govern everything from setting sail to reading shifts in the wind.

We wake before dawn to meet Jouvence at his hut. It's still dark as we gather around a small fire to share hot, heavily sweetened coffee, a constant across the entire island.

Out at sea

His neighbours arrive soon after. With that unhurried pace so characteristic of the Vezo, they gather their gear for the morning's outing: long nets, masks, and a tool I haven't seen before, a wooden stick capped with a hollow cone.

After taking a few backlit portraits, we walk with them down to the beach where their canoes are lined up. The newly risen sun is already warm as we cross a strip of bleached, thorny scrubland typical of this region.

I watch them meticulously prepare their narrow pirogues and unroll the single sail, pieced together from stitched rice sacks. It's a cheap, accessible material, but a fragile one: a few seams snap in the breeze, and I wonder what they used before plastic sacks became the norm.

Heading out to sea, I leave my main camera behind, remembering last year's disaster, when my gear took an accidental swim.

Sailing across the lagoon is smooth, the water shifting through every shade of blue. Further offshore, they drop the sail and prepare the net. One fisherman plunges into the water to herd the fish, while the others slap the surface with their wooden cones, using the sound to drive the catch into the mesh.

Today's catch is meager: just a handful of palm-sized fish. It's a grim reflection of what these waters have become. The sea has emptied out in recent years, whether from local pressure or from the massive industrial trawlers raking the Mozambique Channel day in, day out.

On our way back to shore, though, we spot another fisherman hauling in a huge trevally. He will make good money with it.

The golden hour

The early morning outing calls for a long rest during the heat of the day. But once the sun softens, we head back to the village for an afternoon of candid photos and portraits.

The atmosphere is lively. Young men play an intense game of football, watched by a crowd of kids. Nearby, older men and their sons load water jerrycans onto a zebu cart, another mends a net, and women sit chatting in the shade. We reconnect with a few fishermen we know and stroll along the beach together.

The whole village is bathed in golden light, by far the finest time of day here.

I set up a few group portraits in the shallows. Knee-deep in the warm lagoon and holding their tools, the fishermen look proud and dignified. Ravalo, John, Liva, Njara, Moustan, Meza, Dericka and Vily all join in, a mix of familiar faces and new ones.

Looking down the beach, I see Emi surrounded by kids showing off their best jumps.

As the sun dips lower, filling the sky with a warm gradient of color, the silhouette of a father holding his baby daughter stands out against the horizon. The football game winds down, and people slowly head back to their huts.

It's time for us to make our exit too, promising to come back next year with fresh prints in hand.