Field Notes #15: Learning from the smallest things

Text by Meiya Gujjalu

The first night I spent in the forest in Madagascar was nothing like what I had imagined. Rain poured onto my tent, insects pulsed through the canopy, and somewhere far off, lemurs sang into the night. It was my first time camping and my first time doing fieldwork, and I felt the mix of nerves and excitement that comes with stepping into something completely new.

Holding a mouse lemur for the first time!

I was based at La Mananara in central Madagascar, one of our field sites for studying mouse lemurs. The tasks were straightforward—recording habitat measurements, helping trap lemurs, collecting fecal samples—yet in practice, I soon realized that the forest had its own logic. Sudden downpours, vegetation so dense it made the trail almost disappear, and the quick, unpredictable movements of the lemurs turned even simple tasks into lessons in patience and attention. The environment refused to be rushed, and I slowly learned to match its pace.

​Following mouse lemurs each day drew me into a different way of seeing. Up close, these tiny primates—small enough to fit in my palm—revealed themselves as quiet architects of the forest. They disperse seeds, pollinate flowers, and trace routes through the canopy that stitched the ecosystem together. Feeling the delicate, almost human grip of a lemur’s hand was unexpectedly grounding. It reminded me that even the smallest species hold entire evolutionary histories within them. Watching them navigate branches with effortless precision showed me how each individual contributes to the forest’s balance.

​The physical challenges of fieldwork—long hikes, slippery trails, dense understory—were real, but what stayed with me was how those challenges reshaped the way I observed. Each measurement became a question about connection; each animal encounter revealed some thread in the forest’s web. Slowly, the work taught me not just to record what I saw, but to understand the relationships beneath it.

Setting traps along forest transects at dusk

A mouse lemur peering back at us

Back in Berkeley, I’m now working with Vero to analyze the data for my senior thesis on intraspecific variation in seed dispersal by mouse lemurs. Even within a single species, individuals differ in what they eat, how they move, and how they interact with their environment—and those small differences can ripple outward into patterns of regeneration and forest structure. Fieldwork taught me to pay close attention; lab analysis is teaching me how to interpret that attention with rigor. Together, these experiences are shaping the kind of scientist I hope to become: someone who looks closely, thinks across scales, and remains grounded in ecological context.

Recording habitat measurements at one of our transect points

Collecting morphometric data from a captured mouse lemur (Microcebus sp.)

I went to Madagascar to study lemurs, but I returned with a deeper understanding of what research can be. Fieldwork humbled me with its blend of challenge and wonder because it showed me how small actions—by lemurs, by ecosystems, by researchers—ripple far beyond themselves. Mouse lemurs, improbable survivors in a rapidly changing landscape, reminded me that good science is not about controlling nature but about learning from it, letting it unsettle you, and allowing those moments to shape better questions and more thoughtful work.
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I’m deeply grateful to Vero and Professor Razafindratsima for their mentorship and support throughout this project. Their guidance gave me the tools to move through the forest with curiosity rather than certainty, and to see research as a dialogue with the systems we study. The lessons I learned in the field —the patience, the attention to change, the perspective of what matters—will continue to shape the science I hope to pursue for many years to come.

Enjoying camp life with new friends