Encounter with the Short‑Horned Chameleon (Calumma brevicorne) in Andasibe

The short‑horned chameleons of Andasibe are nothing less than spectacular. Their horns, far from modest, rise with a quiet might, and their occipital flaps—vast, like elephant ears—make them among the most dramatic silhouettes in the entire chameleon family. When nervous, they hiss and flare these flaps, transforming themselves into creatures far larger than they truly are, a living illusion of power.

They do not hear, just as their kin do not, but they speak through posture, through gesture, through the sudden expansion of their ornamentation. And then there are the babies—enigmatic, unique. This is the only species where the young are more spiky than the adults, their dorsal crests high and jagged, only to diminish as they grow. Ontogeny here is a paradox: the juveniles wear armor that adulthood gradually sheds.

Their color change is astonishingly swift. Shine a flashlight upon them and within two seconds the radiant greens and golds vanish, replaced by a dark, blackish stress pattern that erases them into the night. The camera captures not brilliance but shadow, as if the forest itself conspires to keep their secret.

To witness Calumma brevicorne is to step into a riddle of evolution—horns that command, flaps that deceive, babies armored more than their parents, and colors that vanish before your eyes. They are not merely chameleons; they are living enigmas, guardians of Andasibe's mist, reminding us that the forest holds wonders that resist both comparison and capture.