"Madagascar, wow! But war's broken out there," came the predictable response from the umpteenth person I told about my impending trip. To some, a dhow-supported kayak tour of islands along the north-western coast of Madagascar seemed a bit gung-ho.

To argue that going there to see first-hand what the situation on the ground was, evoked a certain scepticism about my sanity.

Truth is, I had to trust the judgement of Ross Murray, co-owner of Madagascar Island Safaris and, in the Sakalava language, he said: "Alo-tsika!" (Let's go!)

A few weeks later, the group of 11 sweaty vazahas (tourists) met on the cacophonous slipway of Nosy Be's Hell-Ville town harbour.

The colourful town with its French colonial architecture is named after Admiral Louis de Hell, the French governor of nearby Reunion at about the turn of the last century. But someone had better tell the locals that the town has been renamed Andoany.

Soon after launching brightly coloured kayaks from the good ship Salama Tsara's upper deck, the Hell-Ville bustle faded behind us as we set off on our trip to Mahalina, first stop Nosy Tanikely.

I shared a kayak with Richard Dennison (later dubbed "The Anarchist" for his gentle counter-culture views on life). It wasn't long before a good-natured animosity developed between us, brought on by a rudderless kayak slewing drunkenly in an increasing wind-chop.

Sinking our toes into the bleached sand of Nosy Tanikely after paddling with ballast came as a relief. We caught our breath before we donned snorkelling gear and ducked our heads under the island's azure skirt. Coral heads appeared to be haphazardly strewn along the sandy seabed, supporting a sci-fi cast of life forms. A platter-sized batfish shadowed the languid movements of a hawksbill turtle while a parrotfish swam by sifting for food between sea anemones. A school of silver fish surged across our field of view as if somebody had drawn a giant, living curtain.

Our next stop was Mahalina beach. On arrival, The Anarchist and I scavenged bits and pieces off other kayaks, including (sorry, Ross) a pin off the tender's back-up outboard to make HMS Sponge steerable, while the others settled into bungalows beneath bowed coconut palms.

By the time we MacGyvers had argued ourselves to working consensus, local Three Horses beer had begun to flow and the smell of grilling kingfish had us salivating.

Our routine was soon established: rise early for breakfast and get paddling before the wind chopped up the ocean surface. Each day we looked forward to tasty food, often prepared in transit and served on the dhow or a beach. We'd then sail or kayak to the next island camp or beach bungalow.

One evening we ran a little late and our nahooda (dhow captain) showed why it takes seven years to earn this title by safely bringing the craft into a large bay on a dropping tide in the dark. In the morning, we woke up in a place with a story.

During the Russo-Japanese war in 1905, a Russian warship, the Vlotny, was sent to this sheltered stretch of coastline and told to wait for further instructions. The facts aren't clear, but the story goes that the ship's crew was thought to have been forgotten by their superiors.

On finding themselves faced with war or life in this tropical paradise with the beautiful Malagasy girls, the crew became mutinous. The captain, fearing for his life, capitulated and the ship stayed put, save for two occasions when they ventured out on pirating missions.

Many of the sailors are thought to have died of malaria, but the survivors made this bay, known as Russian Bay, their home.

A couple of hours paddling took us further south where we hauled our kayaks out of the tepid waters and up Nosy Iranja's silvery beach.

In the morning, those who could get up took an exploratory dawn stroll up the spine of the island through lush village gardens. On the apex we came upon a freshly painted tube of steel that looked a bit like Tintin's cartoon rocket. The now defunct old iron lighthouse was built by Gustave Eiffel, who's famous for the Casa do Ferro, a steel house in Mozambique, and some or other landmark in Paris.

We walked back through ylang-ylang-scented thickets and along a beach before looping through the waking village.

Fishermen and children ferried nets and cargo to bobbing pirogues. They would return with the catch only when the wind changed direction in the afternoon, by which time we would be scouting the coves and groves of remote Kalakajour Island, even further south.

Throughout the journey, each day produced tireless beauty. Near the end of our trip, off yet another beautiful beach, paddling solo, I had the feeling of moving through a cheesy tropical postcard.

We'd spent time metres from a baleen whale suckling her calf, chatted to fishermen riding skinny craft too far from land, been peed on by lemurs, shared starry nights, hearty meals and a ton of laughs.

All while the rest of the world cowered behind takeaway dinners forming negative opinions about this wonderland from the evening news. Revolution? What revolution?

Published by arrangement with Getaway magazine. For the full story, see the February edition.