the chimpanzee fortress
walking the hallowed halls of green: a visual account of my visit to Mahale National Park, Tanzania. focused around encounters with the chimpanzees.
may 2021
6°16′S 29°56′E
walking the hallowed halls of green.
i
with every swing of his machete, Hussein takes a deep bite from the thick jungle. he appears entirely comfortable with the sweltering heat or the greenhouse-like humidity of the jungle. even in the dark shade of thick vine-bound canopies i find the climate challenging - my backpack of lenses, batteries, memory cards, and other cameraperson’s paraphernalia presses down hard on my shoulders. i am by no means pushed to the limits of my abilities, but hiking around in what could easily be a sauna makes me ravenous constantly. yet i stubbornly continue following Hussein, my valiant guide, who, to my admiration, has been fasting over the course of our hikes. His pace is brisk and steady and he sometimes stops to listen to the sounds of the jungle. unexpectedly he gestures to me to follow and his pace accelerates to that of a jog. holding on to my oversized lens and camera kit, i shove branches and vines out of the way as i tread in Hussein’s footsteps. the jog is once again interrupted as he checks the radio in his pocket - a distorted, yet distinctly upbeat voice can be heard articulating Swahili on the other end. Hussein bolts again, his pace hastened. my moist, heavy clothes rub uncomfortably against my skin, yet i keep up, shielding the front of my camera lens. on the side of the overgrown trail, we eventually stop - for the first time i notice he has broken a sweat. i also notice a blue denim-coloured silhouette move about the bushes - a fortuitous sign, as i have been told only the researchers from the University of Kyoto wear blue suits.
we walk off the trail and cut through the jungle. at Hussein’s call i put on a canvas facemask as i vault over thick roots and bushes; eventually, he stops. my hands shake as i grip the barrel of my lens. i am unequivocally wet and my breath bouncing off my facemask would make it nigh impossible to use the viewfinder. the air is still; my attention is drawn to motion among the grasses - the blue suit walks towards us as dark figures rustle leaves all around.
a single high pitched cry triggers a symphony of noises and vocalisations: we are virtually surrounded by chimpanzees and my ears ring with their sudden excitement.
ii
my visit to Mahale happened around May 2021, right around the time when Europe had just started to open up to tourism. while this would have clearly been a reason for celebration for those working in Tanzania’s tourism industry, it was a bittersweet victory - most European tourists book their trips to East Africa months in advance. as such, Mahale had been receiving merely a trickle of tourists over the previous months, though a steady one. some of the regular entry points to the National Park would have thus been shut off for the time being - the Mahale Airstrip, possibly the most comfortable route, had seen no flights in weeks; May being off-season would not have helped either. luckily, flying from Dar es Salaam to Kigoma, the city closest to Mahale, was not uncommon, as many passengers travel to the region for purposes other than tourism. yet this barely addressed the matter of making it to Mahale from Kigoma - though stunningly beautiful, the Tanzanian countryside has not (generally speaking) been pierced by modern infrastructure. thanks to its peninsula-like shape advancing into Lake Tanganyika, Mahale National Park could have been reachable by speedboat, yet this could have easily meant higher costs for a solitary visitor. thus i elected to travel part of the way by car.
the earthen roads of rural Tanzania (click to enlarge image).
my V6 engine-drawn carriage raced across the earthen roads by the shores of Tanganyika, often at speeds so high its wheels barely touched the ochre tinted gravel. my driver spoke little English, which made it unlikely for me to understand the progress of our journey - from devouring the landscape at unimaginable speeds, the vehicle unexpectedly drove through a modestly populated village and straight on the shores of the lake. it was on one of the rocky beaches, sunset rays reflecting from Tanganyika’s mirror-like surface, where i met my boat operator, my cook and Hussein, my guide.
on the shores of Tanganyika (click to enlarge image).
we set off for Mahale, knowing we were unlikely to knock on the green gates of the fortress before nightfall. rocking with the turquoise waves of the lake, i watched the hills of the Congo in the distance. an indistinguishable period of time passed before ever taller trees and grasses took over the Tanzanian shoreline until eventually it disappeared completely. i knew we were drawing ever closer to the fortified walls. with the slowing down of my boat, the frighteningly deep indigo waters of Tanganyika settled. the vessel glided across what had become a starry mirror and i was hoisted ashore along with my gear - an unwelcome guest at the gates of the fortress, in the middle of the night.
iii
to me, the novice conservationist, TaNaPa (Tanzania National Parks) grounds emitted a religious-like allure. within them i saw the earthly meeting point of three destructive vectors: humanity; protective interference from those learned in the secrets of natural balance - the priests and acolytes of a secretive cult; and unbridled natural forces. unbeknownst to visitors, in the face of nature, the cultists tread a fine line between chaos and control - where a misstep could easily test the resilience of nature, technological strength needs to be dispensed wisely. when the slowing down of tourism had choked the flow of visitors down to a trickle, this fine line had been rendered even thinner. for a brief, perhaps historical moment, nature and civilisation appeared to be locked into an armwrestling match where the former stood a chance at victory.
(click to enlarge image)
i felt honoured to be there at the time. even as i unconvincingly found my way off the boat in complete darkness, i could tell there was hardly any other way into Mahale. perhaps the lake had swollen up preternaturally during a rainy season which had surprised virtually every Tanzanian person i had spoken to, yet the beaches i had so often seen in photographs were nowhere to be found. i was ushered to the bandas, government-owned accommodation the profits of which had a better chance of feeding back into the upkeep of the Park. though simple, the living conditions afforded by the bandas were more than i had bargained for. there was little to complain about and the lack of network coverage bothered me very little - the aura of the jungle had miraculously overridden all anxiety.
one way in (click to enlarge image).
the conservation area has a good number of accommodation facilities for visitors, it turns out, some of which i even passed by over my days of exploring in and around the green fortress. as private entities, these addressed a different demographic, one which is, perhaps, a little less conscious of the equitability of their travels… or simply better off. stubborn and armed with an idealist’s mindset, and constrained by budget nonetheless, i wanted my nights to be spent in the dignified simplicity of comfort the state-owned bandas offered. never had i expected i would be met with such a high standard of living: hot water, tidy interiors, a gigantic bed, along with just about enough insulation to keep temperatures constant - more than an intruder could ever hope for, in a faraway corner of the world.
early in the morning after my arrival, i awoke to loud thumps on the roof of my banda. i knew it could not have been Hussein, our first meeting was still some time away. walking out of the bungalow i understood where the ruckus had come from - my first appointment with members of the royal court had just commenced. sitting at an awkward position between nobility and an extended party of court jesters, baboons had by far the most visibility. the baboons’ unquestionable intelligence manifested early, with younglings who, in an effort to attract my attention, slapped nearby surfaces whenever we crossed gazes. nothing would escape these agile primates and they would be seen sneaking into our kitchen or at times, digging holes into what little pavement existed around the bandas, all for no apparent reason. oftentimes, they would engage in their shenanigans unashamedly, making a point of not breaking eye contact with onlookers as they ripped out the cobblestones or messed about with some poor soul’s flip flops.
maternity (click to enlarge image).
my audition with the band of baboons was closely followed by a brief encounter with a more... stately group of courtiers - red-tailed monkeys. Hussein would later explain members of this highly secretive caste rarely granted auditions, yet on account of a shockingly small number of visitors, they had, perhaps unwittingly, met me in an area over which their zone of comfort had only recently extended. this happened to be right outside the bandas; still, it should be understood what awaited there was nothing but thick, wall-like vegetation, making it nigh impenetrable for us bipeds. shy and reclusive in their tight social structures, red-tailed monkeys only graced me with their striking appearance once. later trudging through the jungle, their presence lingered, red tails always just out of sight.
emboldened by my first set of exchanges with those living in the fortress, i met Hussein for breakfast in the rusty mess hall which awaited right outside my banda. the condition of the facility mirrored what i had repeatedly observed around Tanzania: ever-present heat and moisture eroded any man-made structure at an alarming rate. one would have to be forgiven for assuming the mess hall had been left to rot for years, but it would have likely been mere weeks. i made peace with the smell of mould and carefully followed Hussein’s plan for the day.
his speech was soft, steady, reassuring, charged with the sagely knowledge of all pathways of the fortress. he explained we would venture into the thicket and the journey would be no small feat, as the corridors of the fortress rarely abode by human order. a way into the jungle did exist and it had been worn into by sages such as himself, yet many of these tangled corridors had erstwhile grown shut. he also clarified what my early morning auditions had meant: while i would never, ever leave the presence of baboons, the red-tailed courtiers rarely showed their faces to visitors. or if they did, it would only last for a brief moment. between the lines i read that an interview with the royals living in the fortress was by no means certain.
i was also handed a book of names where, to my surprise, i could find proof of that steady trickle of tourists. the names of a German family stood out, along with that of a British lady in her eighties (indeed, the book featured a column for age too).
***
our failure to track down the chimpanzees over the course of our first day did not come as too big of a surprise. nonetheless, Hussein had broken the news of our failure in his usual sagely manner, having likely experienced the discontent of other, possibly less composed visitors. i do not recall the reasons why our first attempt had gone awry - perhaps we had missed the chimpanzee’s narrow window for siesta, after which they would have been on the move, effectively impossible to track. not knowing what to expect from my own tolerance (or lack thereof) to the environmental conditions of the fortress, Hussein appeared to temper his expectations from our initial incursion: maybe he had just wanted to make sure i would withstand a longer hike and had elected against going all out from the get go.
wearing a sturdy pair of rubber boots, he led me through the leaves, hacking through dense foliage or tiptoeing our way across streams, over wooden bridges or collapsed logs. if not focusing in on the faraway sounds of the cathedral-like halls of green, Hussein would simply walk. with a steady pace and a gait reminiscent only of the most skilled hikers, he would sometimes gaze over his shoulder, as if to ensure his follower had not been reclaimed by the denizens of the foliage.
carving a path (click to enlarge image).
meditatively matching his pace, i measured his footsteps; always behind by a few paces, i knew where to walk in order to avoid getting caught into the many string-like plants covering the trail. his setting of the course afforded me the opportunity to look around, and i sometimes caught glimpses of Mahale’s permanent inhabitants high up in the canopy: “flying” monkeys, possibly of the vervet and colobus variety. their behaviour, in and of itself unpredictable at times, was easily observed: as Hussein explained, if the leader of a troop mustered the initiative to swap canopies, effectively taking a leap of faith (or “flying”) in the process, then the other members would follow suit. for a man brandishing a camera, such as myself, that was golden advice.
airborne (click to enlarge image).
the monkeys would, however, descend at times, mostly for the sake of tapping into a wider variety of food sources. this overlapped with the chimpanzees’ own feeding habits, bringing about the sort of court intrigue typical to all such institutions around the world. the monkeys find themselves at odds with the chimpanzee’s claim to hegemony over lemon trees, sugar cane, and the colourful assortment of fruits the fortress has on offer all year round. as would be fitting to their stately position on the food chain, the chimpanzees rarely consume unripe fruit; the only notable exception would likely be lemons, the taste of which makes the chimpanzees cringe. their underlings, however, take no heed of the state of the fruit, gobbling them down, ripe or not. those particularly audacious among the courtiers will even consume blossoms, a most unthoughtful act in the eyes of their primate overlords. this drives the chimpanzees up and sometimes, to the delight of visitors, down the green corridors of their mountainous estate. though i have not been sufficiently lucky to greet them at the base of the mountain, signs of their passage, mostly in the form of lemon peels, could be found on the trails us humans sometimes use to navigate the jungle.
a sour feast (click to enlarge image).
in spite of distant vocalisations and rustling among the leaves, we failed in our pursuit of the chimpanzees. i was not discouraged: the magic of the fortress had timidly revealed itself to me. the labyrinthian wedding of mossy rock and living wood often appeared to reach out as we brushed past leaves; wherever the canopy fell under the bite of Hussein’s machete, it appeared to grow back almost immediately; and marching past muddy river beds often stirred up large groups of iridescent dragonflies.
Hussein’s pace had put me in a state of shallow, meditative hypnosis, yet he had no reason to worry i would lag behind. i made my presence felt plenty: at times panting and always awkward in my gait, i did keep up with my guide. in fact, my own physical performance had been propelled to heights i had never experienced before. i was well fed - a rich African diet i had sustained for over two months, paired with plenty of sleep and ever-expanding exercise sessions had fortified my body well. i felt as if i had struck the optimal balance of weight and endurance, and the jungle trek did not stress my body, it rather had it run like a well tuned engine. nevertheless, optimal performance under the humidity and temperatures of the rainforest meant i was using up quite a few calories.
my breakfast had been more than generous. i had eaten like a horse, perhaps to cover for the necessities of at least two. in all honesty, i had stuffed myself until i felt sick. dinner followed suit - i could rarely finish the gargantuan portions of food handed to me. my body burned through all of it easily, putting me in a paradoxical state of food-induced comatose and ravenous hunger, both at the same time. regrettably, the magic of the forest did not endow me with a larger (or second) stomach, meaning that i would stuff myself sick for every meal for the remainder of my visit.
pristine (click to enlarge image).
iv
hopeful and well rested, i sprung to the yurt-shaped mess hall early in the second morning. on the off chance our much sought after royalty would fail to materialise during the second day of our pursuit, Hussein informed me, a few other sages from within the sea of green had been drafted into our effort. using a radio terminal - Mahale was not covered by GSM -, he would communicate our position to those he had labelled as his “friends”: a local working for TaNaPa, a group of scientists, and perhaps many more.
radio updates (click to enlarge image).
i was prepared for a much sprightlier hike this time around, and Hussein did not fail to deliver. we followed a route similar to the previous day’s, making our way underneath the green arches, vaulting across lively rivers, and hacking away at the exact same corridors i thought we had cleared the day before.
clearly discernible in the beginning, our pathway eventually faded away, but it still carried us deep into the green. i found myself crawling through tight, thorny spaces, dragging my lenses along and hoping no stray stem would entangle the only weapon i dared carry into chimpanzee territory. more struggle awaited on the other end of each tunnel - covered in thorns and caoutchouc, i would stand up and drive all the debris through my skin. nevertheless, as the elevation increased and thick canopies replaced the blue of the sky, chimpanzee “nests” dotted the surroundings, perched atop leaning trees. “they’re close,” must have uttered Hussein, pointing towards the round, leafy structures.
necessary preparations had to be made before approaching a group of chimpanzees. not only did this mean putting on a facemask, but also getting to grips with a bit of basic etiquette. i would likely be tested by the leader of the group, Hussein warned me, meaning that an infinitely stronger alpha male would charge at me. the intentions behind his actions were not to spark conflict, not necessarily, but my best bet would be to simply stand still. unless genuinely threatened, the charge would never end with a blow. i was to avoid eye contact at all costs as well - a direct gaze would be perceived as threatening by males and would have some females shy away. but most importantly, i was to be quiet and mindful of their movements and behaviour, as i soon discovered both uncannily resembled our own.
panting slightly, mostly due to the rush of having achieved one of my goals, i calmly made my way towards what appeared to be a group of small, dark-coloured mounds of dirt. i eventually saw them move and felt something stir deep down within me, as if the most precious moments of my life had just begun burning away. each second counted and i wished for all that was unfolding before me to be consigned to memory, for posterity. when one of the so-called “mounds” rose above the bushes and charged straight at me, the earth rumbled, the leaves quaked, and i felt many pairs of eyes, all set in my direction. on account of my trust for Hussein and equally, the indescribable feeling which had taken hold of me, neither did i feel threatened, nor did i wish to move. perhaps i acknowledged my position as an unwelcome guest among the chimpanzees and did not fear the repercussions of my transgression. nonetheless, all advice proved true and my “attacker” backed out at the last moment. imagined or not, i felt the air loosen up, as young chimpanzees made their way onto nearby branches, while the tall grasses revealed the adults.
togetherness in grooming (click to enlarge image).
we had officially been granted an audience with the so-called “M Group,” as named by the blue suits. to understand and build rapport with the chimpanzees, the first blue suits had arrived in 1965, as delegates of the University of Kyoto. at the time, the entire chimpanzee population of Mahale cohabitated as one large, apparently unstructured group. to facilitate the process of habituation with us humans, the blue suits split the chimpanzees, with the patrol routes of the M and K groups often overlapping. a total of 65 members could be identified as part of the M group, though mobility between these family-like structures was not entirely unheard of. in contrast with our own social dynamics, social mobility is only afforded to females, which, in turn, prevents inbreeding. males, however, constitute the backbone of any given chimpanzee dynasty, making it impossible to escape the mores of tradition. this, however, does not mean that a male chimpanzee’s life ever gets boring: climbing the social vines of any given group is ferociously challenging and even a hard-earned position has to be maintained, usually at significant expense. chimpanzee’s psychological complexity - a fully grown individual’s intelligence is said to equate to a human five year old’s - creates fertile ground for dynamics such as those of trust, reputation, or credibility. in other words, a male has to prove himself in the eyes of his group if he is to stand a chance at going up in ranks. similarly, a so-called “alpha male” must be personable in the eyes of his peers, yet sufficiently aggressive and strong-armed in order to keep challengers at bay. an overly aggressive alpha will eventually be dethroned by popular demand, while a weak leader will simply perish at the hands of an overzealous youngster. such is life under the arches of green: a delicate balance of violence and persuasion, set on a background of ecological fragility.
baby chimp theatricals (click to enlarge image).
yet onlookers may be fooled into believing that the strenuous politics of chimpanzee life have vanished when observing a group during its “siesta”, that part of the day right after a wholesome meal which helps conserve energy and provides ample opportunity for mutual grooming. the latter is nothing new among primates; it is even likely that, through exposure to a wealth of television programmes, most of us would have no trouble identifying the act. in a typical display of chimpanzee aristocracy, the members of the M group have elected to do things differently: locked in a “high-five”-like handshake, they will not be seen taking turns at grooming. instead, any two chimpanzees engaged in this graceful ritual will groom each other simultaneously. nowhere else can this behaviour be observed, Hussein explains, and i consider myself fortunate for having been there as it happened.
the Mahale “high-five” (click to enlarge image).
v
1996 marked the end of chimpanzee’s close and frequent encounters with their taller and (debatably) smarter cousins, us humans. a wave of death swept across one of the dynasties of the jungle, leading to the loss of about 11 individuals. it was revealed we had been at fault for the disaster: the shocking similarity of our genetic makeup translates into similar vulnerability to disease.
we should have known better.
a daring gaze (click to enlarge image).
regulation was eventually passed: humans were to keep their distance at all times and facemasks had become an absolute must. yet without this horrible occurrence, the story of Darwin, now an older, wise-looking chimpanzee, would have never been told.
Darwin would have been three around the time disease struck, taking away his mother and leaving him in the care of an unlikely adoptive father. Mze Moshi (“old man Moshi”) took care of Darwin as he would have of his own kin, bringing him up to chimpanzee adulthood and facilitating his reintegration within the M group. the story of Mze Moshi and Darwin would have continued had it not been for the new set of regulations; in fact, the two kept in touch late into Darwin’s adulthood and long after his return to his family of jungle dwellers. out in the wild, whenever Darwin sensed Moshi had come to visit, he would invite his adoptive father to groom him - imagine the old man’s delight as his hairy son would mimic a scratching motion! Moshi would duly oblige, understanding that the regal standards of chimpanzee etiquette would normally bar any ole human from what effectively was the highest of honours - grooming a member of the house of Chimp. yet the new regulations meant that Moshi could no longer comply with his adoptive son’s request and one fateful day, Darwin’s customary signal appeared to go unnoticed. the chimpanzee would have done it again, leading to the very same result; Moshi tried to build rapport with Darwin even in the absence of their grooming ritual, though to no avail.
Darwin (click to enlarge image).
that was the last time Darwin was seen gesturing to Moshi. Today, Darwin roams the jungle in the company of his own species; he is placid, observant, albeit reserved in the presence of our kind. yet his gaze sometimes pierces the distance as we point our lenses at him, his demeanour changing briefly in what would be acknowledgment of our relative closeness. it is within that split second when an unexplained feeling may wash across his countenance, perhaps mourning trust lost and never regained.
***
“it is ironic that the first real conservators of the Mahale Mountains [...] who lived in a near perfect symbiosis with their environment, have now been excluded from their ancestral land.” - Jens Finke, Tanzania.
before the chimpanzees were given what would be almost free rein over the area, they had shared what today is their fortress with their distant cousins - humans. our peaceful coexistence with the primates had been established on account of our unobtrusive style of life and dispersed existence at the time. Mahale’s status as a game reserve allowed for 35,000 humans to live on its grounds, most hailing from two tribes: the Holoholo and the Batongwe. it is assumed that the chimpanzee’s “flatmates” had migrated westwards from what today is the Democratic Republic of Congo, likely crossing Tanganyika’s 50km width by boat. these late permanent inhabitants of Mahale practically lived off the land, cultivating fruit trees in tiny, remote communities. their way of living was perfectly in tune with the natural cycle of the jungle and their congregations would usually take place under the foliage of a large mango tree.
the congregation tree (click to enlarge image).
to the astute observer signs of their past existence can still be found - on what today is a “listening point” for visitors of Mahale, a well worn rock “pot” can be found. the sight of its well polished surface fuels the imagination, highlighting a singular temporal thread which still connects the onlooker with generations upon generations of inhabitants past.
a “pot.” looked much more like a mortar to me (click to enlarge image).
by 1987, Mahale had been made a National Park. certainly, this meant chimpanzees could now roam the grounds without a care in the world - except for, of course, their natural predators and the odd poacher -, yet the previous inhabitants had to uproot their lives and perhaps start living on the shores of Lake Tanganyika, within settlements close by.
***
when the group decided to head deeper towards the mountain, we began our retreat to the bandas. with the disposition of one who has witnessed a wonder of the world, i barely uttered a word. instead, i retraced my steps, all in my mind, in an attempt to commit the entirety of the experience to long term memory.
over dinner, i dared access the bandas’ internet connection and found we had covered a rather insignificant area of Mahale. whatever lies beyond the walls of the rainforest, i wondered - of the 1,600 square kilometres of Mahale, we had barely scratched the surface. Gombe, made famous by Jane Goodall, only covers around 50 square kilometres.
vi
i would only be fortunate enough to meet them again on my fourth (and last) day in Mahale.
our failure to track them down again on the third day left me unfazed. a morning of going through the motions - piercing the jungle, spotting clues, listening - had gotten my hopes up. yet hoping to be successful on two consecutive days would have been wishful thinking. we had no choice but to give up. truth is, once we missed the siesta window, our opportunities for finding them plummeted. consequently, we went on hacking at the foliage instead, uncovering increasingly impressive, mystical almost, trails. at times, the pathways would fade under the swirls of stems and leaves, giving Hussein the opportunity to use his magic: a swing of his machete, a few steps taken sideways, or simply a calculated shove would open up gateways of whichever trail we found ourselves on. at times like these, i felt like i was being tested, prepared even, for a feat of sorts.
our steps eventually took us back to the mossy markers at the starting point of all trails. in the proximity of our base of operations, i had begun formulating objectives for the remainder of the day, before a sudden rustle of leaves made me bounce. even Hussein stopped and turned his head, eyes scanning the area for signs of predatory intent. none was found however and i could see his shoulders ease up. whispering, he indicated a bush nearby, where a singular tusk intermittently rooted the ground or at times revealed its glint in patches of light. eventually, the head of a boar came to the fore and i did all but freeze at the sight of it. it presently became apparent that it had no interest in taking any sort of defensive action, and i eventually let my guard down. unbeknownst to me, we had happened upon one of the court's most enigmatic presences, a time-lost elder of Mahale, who could rarely be seen roaming the grounds.
originally one of a quartet of piglets, all female, the ageing boar that rooted close by was the last one to be seen alive. social beings at heart, the four boars-to-be had likely understood their waning chances at survival in the absence of a drove of their own and instead turned to interacting with the most unlikely visitors: humans. this has made them preternaturally comfortable with us bipeds, behaviour which, naturally, did not go unnoticed by visitors. eventually, this was consecrated as one of the curiosities of Mahale, thus adding another footnote to the chronicles of the chimpanzee fortress.
***
i’d be telling lies if i said i felt relaxed during the fourth morning. with the pressure of elapsing time and a spell of less attractive weather, i wished for a successful hunt. missing the chimpanzees had become a possibility, one which i had had to contend with the night before. without uttering a single word about it, Hussein understood: he too feared the prospect of returning home empty-handed. however, i felt - nay, i was confident the sage still had a trick up his sleeve.
the day’s trek debuted as it always had - walk briskly, uncover any clues the green growth may hold, then listen for any distant shout that may give away the location of our objective. but i felt like Hussein had been priming his senses to formidable levels, nearing a state of superhuman sensitivity. he saw and heard things i could not, there was no question about it, and i followed in his footsteps for the better part of the morning. this time, his usually calculated gait betrayed a sense of urgency, as if his muscles contracted and subsequently relaxed with a perceivable release of energy beyond what is typical to human physicality.
Hussein listening in. not taken on the fourth day (click to enlarge image).
when our trail appeared to vanish among the leaves, Hussein turned suddenly, once again pointing his ear in a direction i did not understand. i no longer recall whether he warned me of what was to come. he bolted off, gesturing to me to follow. he had done so before, but this time, his steps took us to the crumbly edges of a steep riverbed.
vaulting over boulders and merely touching the surface of the water, we raced over any and all obstacles that stood in our way. on the other side of the tumultuous waters, a steep climb awaited, which we tackled by clutching onto roots, leaves, and vines. a hunt akin to the first day’s had started, though wilder, faster, more challenging. i knew Hussein had carefully tried my capacities over the previous days and this was his response - i had passed the test and some real tracking could ensue.
this time around, i knew where to look: leftover nests cluttered the canopies above, while chewed down cores littered the ground. i felt and heard their presence and once again, the air vibrated with their vocalisations when we arrived. however, they would no longer grace us with their presence down below, instead assuming the full beatitude of their strong, agile selves. we had no choice but to tag along as they navigated the canopies. for them, this meant following the food, gracefully moving from one branch to another. for us down below, however, it meant working around or against the geographical features of the area.
they did eventually come down for their siesta. this time, we found Teddy, the alpha, savouring the fruits of a fig tree. later, he made his way down to the ground and along with him, the entire troupe.
Teddy, the alpha male (click to enlarge image).
sheltered by tall grasses, brittle branches, and resting their heads on beds of leaves, the chimpanzees had become one with their green universe. with their bellies full and rocked by the warm African winds, they presented a pastoral vision of what us humans could have been doing, many, many thousands of years ago. as we rested our backs against the protruding roots of a large fig tree nearby, i wished for eternity to look just like this - an endless cycle of serenely sating one’s basic needs: for food, for shelter (temporary or not), for socialisation, for closeness in the purest of forms. i thought, at the time, that the individual probably mattered very little for the chimpanzees, in spite of the primates’ awareness of the self. i very much doubted the chimpanzees could ever have inflated egos.
vii
when the engine of the boat came to life, i was, in a way, glad. the surface of the lake shimmered in the early morning sun and i truthfully felt ready to move on. as we picked up speed and the little opening between the trees vanished, i pictured Darwin, up in the fortress. away from the troupe, underneath the large, swirling roots of the fig tree, he digs out the dirt. with his meditative expression, he uncovers a neat pile of luminous shards. in each one, the indescribable, yet immediately recognisable essence of individuality shines. to the pile he adds a few more: two for the German couple i’d read about in the guestbook, one for the elderly British lady, and one for myself. with a fragment of my consciousness forever kept among the leaves, i bid Mahale farewell. i did not belong there, yet no longer had reason to sneak past the barbican in the middle of the night.
leaving paradise (click to enlarge image).
would i ever be closer to Eden than this? - maybe, though i had understood that in this terrestrial paradise the temperatures were high, snake bites were deadly, and everything played by the rulebook of the chimpanzees.
gallery
of superhumans and summits
a recollection of how i let myself be carried all the way to the top of Kilimanjaro.
may 2021
03°04′33″S 37°21′12″E
a recollection of how i let myself be carried all the way to the top of Kilimanjaro.
table of contents
♦ prologue
♦ intro
♦ prep day
♦ day one - rainforest - Machame camp
♦ day two - moorland - Shira 2 camp
♦ day three - moorland - Barranco camp
♦ day four - alpine desert - Barafu base camp
♦ epilogue
♦ gallery
“it’s likely going to rain. a lot”, my host would have suggested back in Dar es Salaam. but i was stubborn: in spite of endless bouts of bad luck, i still wanted to hike. i had already postponed my trip to Kilimanjaro twice, and could already count days to the end of my stay in Tanzania. slightly anxious and clearly annoyed - as if my host didn’t wish for anything but the best for me -, i retorted: “well, it will have to happen anyway.”
on the 24th of may 2021 i found myself boarding a flight to Kilimanjaro airport. departure times had changed and i had spent many early morning hours in Julius Nyerere Airport Terminal 2. i’d lost plenty of sleep and was too tired to let my frustration known. not that doing so would have helped – i had learned that in Tanzania things just sort of... happened. or in some cases, they simply didn't.
air Tanzania had promised free coffee for anyone affected by the delay. several cups in, i felt pretty much the same. verily, no stimulant would have boosted my energy at that point and all that coffee did was to give me slight twitches. after all, i had gotten up three hours after midnight and had paid a very expensive taxi fare to get to the airport on time. for that price one would have at least expected to be driven straight to the airport – that had not been the case. instead, my driver had driven a couple of other people to their destination, tracing what could have been a comprehensive tour of Tanzania’s economic hotspot. even with absolutely no traffic (an unusual state of affairs for Dar es Salaam), it had been a two hour journey. imagine my disappointment when i realised it had all been for nothing.
the relief of boarding the aircraft was short lived too: the other passengers took little heed of the prevention rules brought about by covid and i found myself packed in with tens of other passengers, mostly unmasked. still, i fell asleep almost immediately and came to as the landing gear screeched across the runway at Kilimanjaro.
i may have painted a rather grim picture of the beginning of my trip – the reader forgive me for my negativity. in fact, i mostly felt impervious to external realities and eventually thought to myself: “gee, i must be taking myself too seriously.” indeed, over two months in the East African country had taught me to be patient and simply let things run their course.
it would have still been early morning when i boarded a bus to Moshi. having swapped the bus for a taxi driven by one Shabani, i was dropped off at the Zara Hotel, where i would spend the rest of my prep day.
an excellent customer service experience at the Zara Hotel.
one of the largest settlements around Kilimanjaro National Park is Moshi, which also serves as the capital of the region. administrative importance aside, i found little to do in Moshi other than rest up for the hike ahead, organise my gear and peruse the description of the trail. i was also paid a visit by Yesse, an incredibly fit looking gentleman looking to be not much older than i was. he’d been sent over with the express objective of checking on my gear, yet i suspect the underlying aim of the exercise would have been to plan accordingly should i prove to be a particularly difficult or unfit hiker. Yesse's anxieties would have likely been quelled as we meticulously checked my choice of layering. he did however suggest i rent out further insulation for my legs. i was also prompted to start microdosing on the altitude sickness medication i had packed all the way from Romania.
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acetazolamide, otherwise known as Diamox, is what i used to prevent altitude sickness. Yesse had suggested i only use about a quarter of the normal dose, as the effects of a full pill would have likely kept me on a steady circuit between bed and bathroom throughout the night before my departure. i never increased the dose and continued dosing quarters all the way up to the summit.
avid travellers themselves, my parents had attempted a slightly different approach to dosing Diamox while walking the heights of Peru: maximum dosage on the day of the ascent. based on their account of what followed, this is suboptimal at best: not only did the altitude sickness remain present, but the acetazolamide seemed to push their bodies to absorb very little in the way of water.
ahead of my trip to Africa i spent a great deal of time researching the load necessitated by a hike on Kilimanjaro. though i am clearly out of my league claiming this, i would insist on taking any online “professionally written guide” with a boulder of salt – whether hosted on the website of an established tourism agency or the amateurish blog of a ragtag traveller such as myself, any piece of writing out on the web is subject to the vagaries of SEO. in other words, the monumental (and otherwise ridiculously expensive) lists of gear on the web should be interpreted through the lens of personal experience and quite frankly, common sense. a waterproof duffel bag can easily be replaced by a black bin bag; in lieu of a $600 windbreaker, one can simply add a layer of insulation over whatever they are wearing; your $100 hiking boots are unlikely to perform worse over the course of a week than a $400 pair; and the list goes on. as Yesse kindly endeavoured to teach me, smart gearing decisions and a large dose of positivity will likely trump thousands spent on the best possible equipment.
on the day of our departure, Yesse arrived in the company of several sinewy men, reminding me of the inhabitants of Mloka i had just visited. they proceeded to board the old bus i had found parked in the driveway of the hotel. months later, i am still struggling to describe the vibe of that particular morning – an unusual mixture of solemnity and celebration. it was as if i had been handed some sort of sentence which was yet to materialise. still, all those who were present, whether involved in the upcoming hike or not, appeared to experience little urgency. papers in order, my knapsack was put through preliminary checks and i soon found myself waiting around for the process to kick off. having gone through the motions - a customary group photograph, the signing of several documents, the locking away of valuables inside of hotel lockboxes - i ventured onto the bus, greeted the men and silently sat behind the driver’s seat.
a short drive to Machame Gate pushed my level of excitement to new heights. i had paid little attention to the porters i was accompanied by, even on the drive, as they spoke little english and mostly kept to themselves. in fact, they spoke very little to each other. to my confusion, one of the porters had been introduced as the “chef.” i didn’t question it, but had had trouble imagining how the chef would move around or meet us in the camps. too absorbed by the potential of the trip, i gave it little thought and focused inwards instead, steeling myself for five days of continuous precipitation.
by the time we reached Machame Gate, we had already ascended to an altitude of about 1600 metres and into the so-called “rainforest.” it wasn’t looking great - the entire area had been swallowed by a milky thick layer of mist. with dew drops hanging to his brow, Yesse explained the mist could be found in the area pretty much all year round. i found it difficult to articulate my worries - Yesse was absolutely bursting with positive energy, to an extent which rendered almost any fearsome query pointless. for once, i elected to let myself be carried away by the circumstances.
before anyone could set foot beyond the Gate, our collective load would have to be weighed. in the presence of a ranger and with the solemnity of a funeral gathering, each of my five companions carefully laid their backpacks onto the scales. to my surprise, they weighed mine as well, swiftly moving on to an assortment of canvas sacks and worn out coverings for what appeared to be the elements of a full blown campsite. the law stated that nobody was to haul more than 20 kilograms, in an effort to reduce (often fatal) injuries among hiking crews, but also ensure that as many porters as possible remained employed. once again, i was thoughtlessly expecting for some of the stuff to be left behind or magically make its way up the mountain by itself, yet i felt increasingly worried as all of it found its way into thick, large sacks instead. these massive containers were then hoisted by each porter on his back and the band of four silently made their way up the road. smiling baby wide, my guide stood behind and eventually asked me to follow. i was no longer in possession of my own backpack, aside from the photography bag i refused to hand over.
we would set off on foot, making our way through the extremely dense layer of rainforest. however, my fantasies of exploring the high wilderness would quickly be shattered by the condition of the trail - while i can see why the pioneers of old would have had trouble making it across the walls of vegetation, modern day hikers like myself are blessed with a beautifully manicured trail, with wooden steps and gravel passageways. i was relieved in a way, as i could comfortably focus my attention on the surroundings and keep moisture off my lenses.
accessible, yet shockingly beautiful.
to put things in perspective, the Machame trail – otherwise known as the Whiskey trail – is likely designed to be a compromise between length and difficulty. there are numerous ways of scaling the mountain, yet i understood from the get go that anything beyond a duration of six days would simply be out of my budget. nonetheless, the deal negotiated on my behalf had been more than favourable and the auspicious circumstance i found myself in certainly contributed to a unique Kilimanjaro experience. in hindsight, i was blessed to even be there in the first place – the pandemic had not only made it nigh impossible for the “level headed” to travel to faraway Eastern African countries, but it had also had the effect of robbing the locals of their livelihood, thus making it more likely for them to undersell their services.
some armchair experts would probably argue that tourism is subject to the laws of supply and demand as much as everything else, yet i still find my own attitude towards the matter edging on the inexcusable. drunk on my status as a reasonably well off european, i had cast away humbleness and had instead taken the experience for granted. nonetheless, the above are nothing but the long overdue apology of an overgrown child. within the moment, all i had in mind was a solid set of photographs… at any cost.
the first day of the Machame trail only focused on crossing the thick, permanently wet layer of rainforest at the bottom of the mountain. i can't see why anyone would have any issue reaching the first campsite – low altitudes, impressively well kept trails, along with spectacularly beautiful scenery would keep just about anyone afloat. nonetheless, we must have been the only crew on that side of the mountain and nature itself opened up as we stopped for lunch in one of the area's designated camping spots. the place did not appear deserted and had certainly not been left in a state of disrepair over the long months of lacklustre tourism leading up to the day of my arrival. yet it did appear as if few humans had frequented the area. i was told that Kilimanjaro had become a very significant moneymaker and no longer would the chosen few try their endurance at reaching the summit. in fact, the experience had become streamlined, with tourists of all ages and degrees of physical ability successfully snapping selfies at the top. this could only mean that never again would i be afforded a chance to explore Kilimanjaro the way i did in May 2021; however, this would only sink in with my meeting of a very particular inhabitant of the rainforest.
having sat down, lunchbox in hand, i was still and Yesse did little to disturb what would have likely been a meditative stare into space. my peripheral vision warned me something had started making its way through the bushes nearby, yet i thought little of it as i started rummaging through the generous lunch the hotel staff had packed for me. shortly after, i once again noticed the rustle of leaves and i immediately reached for my camera, leaving the exposed food to spread its delightful vapours into the forest air. i instinctively knew that whatever was lurking in the foliage would eventually muster the courage to try its luck at getting some of that food.
a (rather goofy looking) serval did eventually emerge from a nearby stump.
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it did not take too long for us to leave the misty rainforest behind. it was unexpectedly unceremonious - the thicket of mossy branches just ended, as if someone had traced its borders by hand. i had a bit of trouble discerning what we were walking into, as the clouds from below still dragged overhead. a signpost eventually materialised from the mist, marking our arrival at Machame camp, a little over 2800 metres above sea level.
where the clouds stopped, the rainforest did too.
it felt familiar. i had done sufficient hiking back in my home country to feel at ease among the clouds. the wooden outpost where rangers were stationed echoed the very same familiarity, with its sticker-covered windows and firewood heating. the porters had already pitched two tents by the time we got to the campsite. within the rainproof chamber right outside the “bedroom” of my tent, a foldable chair and table had been set up. my backpack had also been tidily placed right next to a mattress i would sleep on. sitting on a fishing chair felt surreal, to say the least.
as i went through the photos of the day, i found that the porters had warmed up towards each other. i was later told that they’d in fact been a crew for a very long time, yet the pandemic had had them hang around at home for the better part of the year. some had taken up other activities, such as subsistence farming and, if i understood correctly, had done odd jobs around their villages. my anxieties eventually started ramping up at their discrete chatter - had i done something to upset them? Yesse later clarified they were just happy to be working together again, after their long hiatus.
the ritual surrounding every meal felt over the top for me. not that i disliked it, not at all, but hiking the Carpathians, the sort of expedition i am used to, usually involves tins of luncheon meat and other similarly appetising non-perishable foods. now, this was different: one of the men would bring over complex, two-three course meals I had to consume, whether i was hungry or not. this happened twice, even thrice a day. Yesse insisted i stuff my face as much as possible; “most people lose appetite at higher altitudes”, he explained, and one would best “fatten up” ahead of the last two days of the ascent. i humbly agreed and played along.
as i saluted the warm rays of the sun over the second day of our ascent, i felt blessed. what truly dawned on me was that i was completely safe under the watchful gaze of my guide and all of the gear which constituted our portable camp would miraculously materialise somewhere close to the spot where we’d hunker down later in the evening. even the strange, oxygen-deprived dreams i’d had the night before did little to spoil my mood. i had very little to worry about – to me, hiking had usually translated into full independence in terms of decision making, but also taking full responsibility for my actions. in the company of four porters and a guide, i felt little pressure: i would have to do little packing, food would simply be brought to me, and i'd be spoon-fed interesting facts every leg of the journey. i was only left with the enjoyment of blissfully putting one foot in front of the other.
enjoyment, without the cost of packing my own gear.
nonetheless, the distances we would cover every day i still found unusually short – an average of ten kilometres would only add up to about sixty by the end of the hike. i later understood that the purpose of the exercise would have been to sleep at increasingly higher altitudes and prevent sickness along the way. by the fourth day it was presumed that most hikers’ bodies would have had sufficient time to brace for the shock of the summit, with those unable to carry on coming to be in the know before leaving the base camp.
having gobbled down a torturously large breakfast, we made a start through copses of short coniferous trees. our pace had been strong, but in no way rushed. unsurprisingly, the porters overtook us around the one hour mark and i was met with the very same determination and sternness in their eyes. load at the backs of their necks (and hanging to their backs), they carried on steadily and hardly acknowledged me as i pointed my lenses their way.
unbelievable abilities, exceptional stamina - catching up to me and Yesse (left) had likely been a fluke for the porters.
miles upon miles of coniferous trees could be observed on either side of the trail. a tall boulder made for an excellent vantage point and i observed the layer of clouds we left behind: from a distance, it had the texture of pillow stuffing and very rarely would openings within make the lands below visible. as we hiked to higher altitudes, the dense forest turned into patches of similar, yet somewhat taller trees, all covered in moss reminiscent of torn cloth. the trees i would later observe at the campsite were very similar, yet distinctly shaped by the direction of strong winds. the camp itself rested on a plateau hemmed in by a steep descent, where the undercurrents sculpting the trees' distinctive shape likely originated.
as the second evening progressed, one could tell that the men had become comfortable towards me. the laughs and chatter had become more audible. i was glad that was the case. though i knew i could have never positioned myself as “one of the boys”, i wished i could make them feel at ease during their first outing since the beginning of the pandemic. i spoke little swahili, they spoke little english; however, i knew they understood i wasn’t going to make their job harder than it already was. they also knew, as much as i did, that my ascension had little to do with my own ability. instead, it was theirs which propelled me all the way to the top.
as our pace had been unexpectedly brisk, we made it to our destination - Shira 2 Camp - much faster than planned. having added a few windproof layers to my attire, i found a boulder close to the ridge and just… took a seat. looking around and taking in the details, i became acutely aware of the increasingly alien landscape that surrounded me - the hard shrub, the wind-sculpted trees, the pineapple-shaped flowers, even the moss-covered volcanic rocks. all a result of unforgiving temperatures, harsh sunlight, perhaps erratic rain patterns, and a general lack of oxygen, the environment had certainly not evolved to be hospitable to humans. the turkey-sized crows appeared particularly ominous too. with all that time on my hands, i spent a few good hours sitting on my boulder, watching the clouds roll over mountainous ranges in the distance.
false beatitude or not, there’s something very special about watching clouds from above.
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my host in Dar es Salaam had suggested i’d be able to effectively live stream my Kilimanjaro hike - provided i had sufficient power. honestly speaking, i had not been convinced, yet i still hoped they were right. they partially were - though inconsistent, reception isn’t the worst up on the mountain. it may be that the geographical features of Kilimanjaro (i.e. its almost perfect conical shape) facilitate signal travel up the slopes. using a Vodacom SIM card i would receive messages in batches as i hiked; similarly, most camps had a good spot, close to ridges in particular, usually facing the bottom of the mountain.
when talking about gsm reception on Kilimanjaro, one would also have to factor in the weather: i was blessed with clear skies all days of the trip, which had likely helped.
furthermore, vodacom, my operator of choice, may not be the best in terms of coverage. this was echoed by my time spent in southern Pemba, where vodacom would rarely get reception. Yesse, with his dual-sim handheld, would sometimes receive messages and make phone calls in areas where my phone would get absolutely no reception.
as it got darker - not that it ever truly did, as the light of the moon made pretty much everything discernible - temperatures dropped sharply.
on the evening of my third day on the mountain (a mere two nights before the summit), i found myself observing the Barranco Wall from its eponymous camp. it had not been a particularly strenuous day, yet i clearly remember feeling particularly unmotivated to leave my tent - there still were a few shots i wanted to take. in hindsight, the atmospheric pressure had started messing with me in subtle ways. to compensate for a general scarcity of oxygen within my body, my brain had started finding remarkably creative ways of justifying sloth; as much as i wanted to push back, i barely could: so deeply affected i had been that i even found it hard to argue with myself. nonetheless, i mustered the energy to (partially) lace my boots and head out for a quick walk through the most fascinating forest i had ever seen - an agglomeration of water holding cabbages (dendrosenecio), grown among dark, volcanic boulders.
in true “climb high, sleep low” fashion, our camping at Barranco meant we would not sleep at the day’s tallest point. that had been the Lava Tower at around 4600m, while Barranco stood at an altitude of 3900. our progress had been steady - we had left Shira 2 Camp early in the morning, with a view to crossing a most impressive section of the alpine desert. i had observed the gradual thinning of the shrub along the way and by the time we reached the Tower, a frightening expanse of black rock had swallowed up almost any trace of live vegetation. though it is estimated that Kilimanjaro had had its last eruption hundreds of thousands of years before, one could still discern the flows of molten magma. slightly eroded, but no less frightening, the rocky floor had soaked in all the sunlight it could and emitted that heat back at the skies. having walked past several castle-like magma formations, which almost looked freshly laid, we reached the Lava Tower.
it must have been close to noon, as the sun beamed down mercilessly, leaving my face chapped. surrounded by innocuous debris such as planks or tent nails, the formidable formation stood out in the dark-coloured landscape. to my oxygen starved mind, the area appeared taken right out of a Western film, shot somewhere in the North American desertscape. the two ravens overseeing whoever crossed the semi-circular enclosure surrounding the Tower did exceptionally well to strengthen that feeling.
hardly looks western now.
as we carried on towards Barranco Camp, water holding cabbages eventually started peppering the rocky expanse. i’d been very excited to see them in their natural habitat; as such, i would take frequent breaks along the way, possibly testing Yesse’s patience. eventually, i was told that a much better sample of dendrosenecio awaited close to the campsite.
nonetheless, much later that day, the cabbage empire right outside my tent did little to boost my level of energy. i kept on sleepwalking for the rest of the evening.
ironically, i regained some of my stamina long after nightfall. looking at that sky, can you really blame me?
by the fourth day i became acutely aware of how complex my morning ritual had become; indeed, the tasks i would have to fulfil had been building up: get up; leave the sleeping bag before you become aware of how freezing cold your tent is; immediately wrap the batteries in your sleeping bag while it’s still warm; check the charge levels on your gear and pack everything up; use any momentum you have left to get dressed before unzipping your tent. i still performed the ritual with utmost discipline - having no gsm reception kept distractions to a minimum too.
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a quick search reveals that most li-ion batteries operate (i.e. discharge) normally between 0 and 35 °C. in other words, one wouldn’t typically have to worry about abnormal battery behaviour under regular conditions. even more reassuring is that most devices get sufficiently warm under use, preventing unintentional discharge under low temperatures. smartphones and cameras are no exception.
in my camera bag, which i kept glued to me at all times during the hike, i had packed four action cam batteries, three nikon en-el15b batteries, an anker 20k mah power bank, as well as an iphone. strapped to my wrist at all times i kept an apple watch.
none of the above acted out during the day, when temperatures would rarely drop below zero, if at all. however, it would get freezing cold during the night and i was advised to keep all my batteries wrapped up in socks and inside my sleeping bag. further, to ensure my gear would be reasonably reliable when attempting the summit, i kept it all flush against my body, underneath my windbreaker; close to Uhuru Peak, temperatures can even drop below -10°C.
for those using electronic devices sparingly, i’d say packing fewer batteries would be preferable. based on my own experience of using all devices heavily over the course of the trip, i claim i would have been able to fulfil my photographic needs using a usb-charging mirrorless camera. i even made it back with a full nikon battery and some charge left on the powerbank.
an early start at such an altitude also meant i would have to deal with even more unforgiving temperatures outside of my tent - i had a plan to take the men’s photos before crossing the Wall. having had a particularly consistent breakfast, i felt increasingly colder; perhaps the pressure had truly started affecting the inner workings of my body. by the time the sun had assumed a favourable position on the dome, the men had already packed the camp. in the meantime, i had resorted to jumping around while holding on to my gear. sunlight made a dramatic difference in temperature; in fact, this happened to such an extent that i had to peel off some of the layers i had been wearing, altitude notwithstanding.
looking from the very bottom of the only pathway crossing it, the Barranco Wall appeared much smaller than it did from the spot we had spent the night. i wasn’t particularly worried about my ability to make it to the top, yet i was somewhat concerned the climb would challenge the porters’ physical abilities. i was wrong.
the men had little trouble navigating the narrow and rocky pathway, their faces expressionless as they breezed past the so-called “kissing” and “hugging” rocks not unlike mountain goats. the latter are nothing but particularly narrow portions of the trail, where one would effectively be forced to kiss, respectively, hug the wall to pass without risking to be pulled back by their load and crash to their deaths. the very top of the Barranco Wall revealed a rocky plateau. given its moniker, i had envisioned a slightly different outcome to our climb, thinking we would have to make our way back down on the other side. that certainly wasn’t the case, as the altitude kept increasing. the landscape had changed markedly: no longer could i spot water holding cabbages. the sole category of coarse vegetation which still thrived in the pitch-black volcanic “soil” only did so in the shadows of rocks, sometimes accompanied by patches of hard snow. in fact, the scenery had changed to what i would imagine the surface of a faraway planet would look like: covered in large, dark, jagged rocks, all reminders of an old, yet devastating volcanic eruption. it did not take a scientist to realise we were walking on the results of a volcanic event, the frightening extent of which had not been masked by layers of decomposing organic matter or human intervention. the very same magma-scarred landscape would have presented itself to the skies, hundreds of thousands of years ago. i later found out that the sudden transition from sub-zero temperatures during the night to the scorching heat of the sun would be so sudden that some stones would break into neat slices.
the perceptive reader has already noticed this is my second mention of magma and volcanic landscapes - while impressive in shape, the Lava Tower and its surrounding formations had been but a taster of what higher altitudes had to offer. as we soldiered on, short gusts of wind sometimes stirred up fine dust between the rocks and the (deceptively comforting) sun beamed down onto us. the unexpected rush of heat invited unknowing hikers to bear their skin, yet that would equate to significant burns over a very short period of time, unless shielded by robust sunscreen.
we had walked into the true alpine desert.
bone dry.
for the sake of narrative rhythm, i have chosen to collate the end of the fourth day with the start of the fifth; i hope the reader will forgive me.
“we usually get up at midnight. but we can get up at two, we’re fast enough” Yesse proclaimed. i was flattered.
the base camp was perched atop a rocky ridge, at an altitude of around 4600 metres above sea level. by that point i had become more than comfortable with the environment - the dosage of acetazolamide i had been taking, Yesse eventually explained, walked a thin line between placebo and a real chemical solution for altitude sickness. yet there were signs of my body struggling to adapt to the sudden change in elevation; though i did not lose appetite, my stomach would arbitrarily rumble and it must have been that i had a much harder time digesting the generous amounts of food i was being fed.
the base camp had the charm of a lunar rocket launch pad. the ridge it sat on was relatively narrow and a wooden cabin serving as a semi-permanent ranger outpost was surrounded by antennae and scrap metal. however, the air appeared to be perfectly still - the sort of silence only an altitude of 4600 metres can bring about.
naturally, the area carried the very same geological features we had been surveying above altitudes of 4000m - the neatly “sliced” rocks, the greyish, dark sands, the same lack of vegetation, as well as the jagged, saw-like teeth of magma remains.
as expected, i hardly got a wink of sleep before the clock struck 1:30. already geared up, i simply laced my boots and was presented with breakfast i would later regret. i have no qualms conveying how cold i felt as i dragged myself out of the tent, though the environment made it easy to simply dissociate from whatever was happening. i can no longer recall whatever unusual, lovecraftian dreams i had had as i lapsed in and out of consciousness in my sleeping bag, yet i woke up with a distinct feeling of not belonging. i will boldly claim that getting up for a 3am flight would make anyone question the trip; i had woken up at 2, at an altitude of over 4600 metres, in preparation for a climb of another 1400.
the ascent proved to be no more than a test of patience and focus. even with our relatively late departure, i realised that Yesse had accounted for numerous breaks on the way. we took none and instead carried on to Stella Point, braving the lunar-like dust our boots would stir up with every step. i felt no need to rest or drink, or even breathe. the latter i would engage with in a calculated manner, inhaling and exhaling consciously, in tune with the cadence of my steps. i did little in the way of documenting during the ascent; my attention, for once, was riveted to the sudden air of strangeness the entire affair had taken. i had found myself walking up a tall mountain in the dead of night, in absolute silence. we eventually left behind the seemingly unreachable rim of Kilimanjaro’s snowcap.
walking on the surface of a faraway planet.
i vividly remember reaching Stella Point (5756m) much earlier than we really should have. i was not feeling tired at all, yet that would have been a result of my numbness. i shall always recall my first sight of Stella - the snow-covered mouth of a volcanic crater in the dark, lit only by a star-studded indigo sky. i became acutely aware of how much the temperatures had dropped and started shivering uncontrollably, yet carried on through the snow. though i was wearing numerous layers and a reasonable pair of hiking boots, the ice-encrusted snow chilled my soles right through.
truly, the landscape had gone beyond the mere definition of an “alpine desert.” the land was inhospitable and devoid of any life. in the (relative) dark, the scenery felt ever more astral and i understood i did not belong where i was. humans did not have a place at one of the ends of the world. i was in pretty bad shape - functioning under the atmospheric pressure of such altitudes, i felt fine, yet my instincts had started sounding all the alarms. Impatiently, i waited for the sun to blast me with its lifesaving rays, as temperatures had most likely dropped below -15°C.
ancient glaciers, volcanic rocks, little else.
i met Uhuru Peak minutes before the crack of dawn; looking over what could have been one of the most inhospitable environments i will ever set foot in, i felt very little excitement. by the wooden sign i found bits and bobs - coins, sticks, a doll’s head, photographs of families unknown.
in a word, there was… nothing.
end of the road.
as we made our way down the slopes nearing the summit, my bodily functions returned to normal. indeed, the shock had been significant, yet i am grateful altitude sickness had not done me in. i was later told of questions i had asked Yesse on a variety of topics - average temperatures, summit success rate, the age of the glaciers. i have no recollection of such questions.
Yesse had previously shared the story of an elderly gentleman who had chosen to reach the summit in the company of his sons. topless and wearing nothing but sandals, he did reach Uhuru, yet at the cost of his life. naturally, the guide would have panicked, seeing how one of his clients had just passed. the sons would have promptly reassured the guide his passing had been part of the plan from the very beginning. i struggled to find plausibility in the story at the time it was recounted; however, i do understand now. perhaps the elderly gentleman understood there was nothing physical at the top. perhaps he wanted his hand held for as long as possible before he went. the aggressively inhospitable environment of Uhuru Peak had likely made for the perfect liminal passageway: a tunnel from earth to the heavens.
half an hour away from the basecamp, we were met by two of the porters. one of them offered to carry my bag - i refused, feeling perfectly fit for another 30 minutes of walking. with a stern look on his face, Yesse very firmly suggested i hand the bag over - the porters had come all the way from the camp to meet me. disallowing them to fulfil their role would translate to a significant affront.
there would be no use in recounting our way back. however, as we walked the final stretch of land ahead of the rainforest, i casually pointed out the mounds of stone laid by the side of the trail. many of these stood along the trail, leading me to think they would have been an environmentally friendly variant of scribbling one’s name on the side of a tree. i asked Yesse about their meaning. he chuckled and impersonally told me those were impromptu gravestones for porters who had died of hypothermia.
for those working as guides and porters, this is work, their career even. for the rest of us, the experience may vary: for the elderly gentleman, the summit would have been a liminal passage; for me, merely a feat of strength. however, in telling me the following, Yesse must have spoken to an entire generation of young hikers, eager to prove their worth: “the trail is for the soul; the summit is for the ego.”
Yesse standing taller than Uhuru Peak itself.
special thanks to Msafiri Travels and Zara Safari Tours for all the support. none of this would have been possible without you.
river people
favourably situated on the edge of a national park and in the proximity of an essential infrastructure project, Mloka is a successful settlement in Tanzania’s Pwani Region. but the village’s growing population of over 4000 still has hurdles to overcome before it solidifies as a significant economic centre in the region.
june 2021
7°46′26″S 39°21′50″E
favourably situated on the edge of a national park and in the proximity of an essential infrastructure project, Mloka is a successful settlement in Tanzania’s Pwani Region. but the village’s growing population of over 4000 still has hurdles to overcome before it solidifies as a significant economic centre in the region.
Mloka would have likely been unremarkable just a few short years ago. sitting right off the banks of River Rufiji in south western Tanzania, the tiny village the name of which broadly translates to “ferry” has found itself not only at the intersection of land and water or bushy plains and thick jungle, but also in the epicentre of economic upheaval. it is not an uncommon story for Tanzania - people from across the country flock to areas with touristic, ergo economic potential. hence, deep in the bush, dusty subsistence farming settlements can slowly turn into diverse and prosperous towns.
a little over 200 kilometres separate Mloka from Dar es Salaam, Tanzania’s largest city and economic centre. surely, a well put together SUV could easily make it from Dar to Mloka in a couple of hours, right? - not exactly. navigating Tanzania’s economic capital alone can easily take several hours. should travellers choose to discount this leg of the journey, they would still have to contend with the unpaved roads starting just outside Dar. i chose to take no chances and rented what effectively was an armoured car, a vehicle well suited for rough roads.
nothing less than a tank.
for those seeking a more budget-friendly alternative, a journey by coach will set you back significantly less, perhaps just a few dollars. however, this can take up to eight hours - the unpaved roads are often fragmented by mud pools, particularly during the rainy season. the worn out vehicles sometimes break down owing to all the bumps, rocks and irregularities of the road and passengers may even be seen pushing the coach by the roadside. nonetheless, coaches leave to and from Mloka thrice a day, virtually every day of the week - though unpretentious, transport is readily available, stimulating Mloka’s development as a “cosmopolitan” settlement.
for locals traveling shorter distances between the many micro-settlements on the road from Dar to Mloka, the motorbike appears to be the vehicle of choice. though significantly more agile and likely less vulnerable than larger automobiles, motorbikes still break down regularly, but let’s just say factors other than the quality of the road may have to do with that.
i must admit i found the last couple of hours of our journey by panzer slightly unsettling. as would be the case with the majority of Tanzania’s backwater roads, there is little (if any) signage to guide travellers and virtually no illumination. upon nightfall, each mile appears endless as the vehicle braves bump after bump after bump; the mind begins to wander as silhouettes of wildlife move about in the bush; equally, the slender figures of Maasai shepherds heading homeward are bound to make any traveler uneasy. happily, we reached our destination not too long after complete darkness had swallowed up the landscape. i promptly fumbled out of the car into Nje Bush Camp, an establishment i would make into my homebase over the following days.
while i suppose each bush camp has its own set of unique characteristics, what Nje Bush Camp really does well is to build a sense of exclusivity - at the ends of seemingly labyrinthian (yet clearly marked) passageways through the thick jungle await private little clearings for you and your party’s delight. as one looks upon the river from their remarkably comfortable tent, with several thick layers of net separating you from all the insects outside, a feeling of coziness sinks in. thanks to the favourable positioning of the tents, one can listen to the river flow while also delighting in the sounds and smells of lush vegetation. yet the camp is not particularly cut off from other similar establishments, as well as Mloka itself, making it safe, but surprisingly private accommodation.
Nje Bush Camp is just one of the tourism focused establishments in the area. in fact, tourism has been one of the key drivers of development in Mloka. its proximity to the famous Selous Game Reserve, a vast stretch of protected land, has created jobs for those interested in and qualified for tourism work. but the existence of the game reserve and more recently, the upgrade of large swathes of land from the reserve to the status of National Park have shaped other facets of life in Mloka. as crossing Rufiji gets you very close, if not right into the conservation area, farmers have started commuting to temporary agricultural settlements. these settlements are typically used between december and june and many locals will be seen crossing the river by boat. in fact, fiberglass and wooden boats make up most of the area’s public transport infrastructure.
a view of Nje Bush Camp from the river. basking in the warm morning sunlight, the tents are as comfortable as they are aesthetically pleasing.
in other words, even as Mloka accelerates to a more modern way of life, the river will in all likelihood continue playing a pivotal role in the lives of locals. similarly to Nje, most bush camps are in fact built on the banks of the river - not only does the water help with the otherwise scorching temperatures of the Tanzanian climate, but is also home to incredible biodiversity and some of the most spectacular sunsets i have ever been blessed to see.
but a particularly rich rainy season and Rufiji river overflowing has led to the destruction of many touristic establishments. with few travellers coming to visit over the past year, river camp owners have had little incentive to rebuild.
markers of a frighteningly swollen Rufiji.
for some residents of Mloka, the slowing down of tourism has not changed everyday life too much. however, for those working in hospitality, the year has been particularly tough.
Rufiji has played a central role in the lives of numerous settlements along its banks, all the way to its delta on the shores of the Indian Ocean. yet the grand river could become essential to nationwide growth through the Nyerere Hydropower Station, a colossal project which is in progress as of may 2021. conceptualised as early as the beginning of the 20th century, a dam within what is today Selous Game Reserve is meant to harness the energetic potential of Rufiji and produce significant amounts of electricity. the reservoir, currently being built in Stiegler’s Gorge, is projected to take up to 1200 km² within Selous Game Reserve, a comparatively tiny slice of the protected area’s over 50,000 km². the reservoir itself, based on a range of studies, is unlikely to damage the conservation area profoundly, though concerns have been raised about select ecosystems in its vicinity.
the usefulness of the dam, at least on a theoretical level, is not easily disputed - its capacity would nearly double Tanzania’s overall electricity generation. this would stimulate nationwide economic growth and help keen pace with the developing nation’s increasing demand for energy, while also preventing the power outages Tanzania’s grid is (historically speaking) guilty of. on a practical level however it remains to be seen whether the country will ever require such amounts of electricity; equally worrying is the likely impossibility to sell off excess electricity, as several purpose-built generation facilities for export will soon become operational in the area (see Uganda’s plans for the Nile Valley).
for the people of Mloka the dam could in the long run be either a blessing or a curse. it may create jobs locally, as it could be said that Mloka is favourably positioned to supply workforce to any project within Selous Game Reserve. equally, it could be argued that if government’s vision regarding nationwide growth comes to fruition, Mloka would be in an excellent position to benefit from nationwide economic growth. however, these unquestionably positive outcomes dangerously edge on speculation.
the much more likely negative consequences of the Nyerere Dam project could directly impact the livelihood of Mloka. broadly speaking, it is unclear how the reservoir will change the morphology of the river, but the “seasonal pulse” of River Rufiji is undoubtedly essential to agriculture. as i am in no position to discuss the impact of altering flood seasonality in greater depth, i will refrain from speculating; however, it has been suggested that any risks associated with the building of the reservoir could be mitigated by meticulously managing the flow of water through the dam, thus emulating seasonal flooding. the problem with that? - this may affect the capacity of the hydropower station to generate electricity, perhaps undermining the premise of the entire project.
predictions aside, the construction of the dam is already having an effect. while it is clear that Mloka has become a popular stopover for long haul truckers and the local economy could only benefit from this, the frequent transportation of construction materials from the village into the conservation area has visibly altered the landscape: the many trucks stir up the dirt, leading to the appearance of dust storms along the roads, which fail to settle for hours. not at all unexpectedly, the otherwise curious and easily visible local wildlife rushes to the bushes as traffic accelerates. while this may not truly have long lasting effects over the animals, it does get in the way of tourism - as long as the hydropower station is in construction, Selous Game Reserve is unlikely to feel to visitors like the bastion of untouched wilderness it actually is.
in spite of the many changes it is facing, Mloka retains some of the markers of a traditional way of life. these intermingle with signs of modernity, coexisting in an often confusing amalgamation. just outside what is currently understood to be the territory of the village are clusters of traditionally built mud huts which, my guide explained, would have been built and subsequently abandoned in favour of more modern housing. paraphernalia pertaining to (previous?) occupants’ professions had been left within the simple, earthen rooms; even here, the presence of the river is clearly visible.
for the sake of avoiding a crasser violation of privacy, we elected to continue our exploration of the village and walked to an area where newer buildings had been erected.
newer dwellings showed a similar weave of tradition and modernity - the very walls of such establishments are born of modern mortar and cement, but the block of choice for most builders is the traditionally crafted sand brick. this is not to say that mud cottages have completely gone out of fashion - a young man has been kind enough to demonstrate the traditional process of erecting and consolidating the walls of his simple homestead. naturally, the traditional approach to building a house comes with a specific set of challenges - thatching with palm fronds is cheap, yet this is a process which has to be done annually. with its comparatively high price, metal roofing is said to be a minor symbol of status, but also a highly valuable asset in practical terms. to ease the financial burden of such an investment, people will “upgrade” to metal roofing gradually, one metal sheet at a time, a principle which, my guide suggests, also applies to cement or even bricks. as such, it would not be unexpected for the young man whose home we had invaded to eventually transition to a new, better built house nearby, abandoning the mud hut he had been constructing.
Mloka’s understanding of medicine appeared to be caught in a similar process of transition, where the traditional usefully coexists with the modern. many of the locals i have spoken to had an encyclopaedic knowledge of medicinal vegetation and i noticed no confusion over its claimed uses and effects. yet it goes deeper than that - existing on the thin border between superstition and science, some of these plants serve both as symbols and traditional medicine reagents. take for instance the so-called “snake tree” - planting one of these close to your home is meant to ward off snakes. its bark, if processed appropriately, may conveniently help alleviate wounds of varying severity as well.
yet this striking dualism is best illustrated by the concomitant existence of a modern hospital and a witch doctor’s hut within the village. ironically, the witch doctor’s “office” was built of the same modern materials as the hospital, but i chose to interpret that as proof of this institution’s resilience. i must admit that i have failed to clarify the exact role of the witch doctor, though i suspect it had more to do with the spiritual dimensions of healing rather than the physical. my guide kindly confirmed the locals “sometimes” visit the witch doctor, yet what a visit would entail remains a mystery to me.
the existence of a hospital in a village the size of Mloka could potentially be read as a voucher of trust in the area’s future development. granted, the hospital likely serves the entire region - Mloka would have just been the most conveniently placed settlement. a closer look at the public health centre reveals a general lack of facilities, though my guide swiftly reassures me of progress being made on the matter. i was lucky enough to have a brief conversation with one of the medical staff, a personable gentleman who briefly explained his training and professional focus. i was surprised to find that they had in fact been assigned to practice in Mloka, having studied in Dar es Salaam.
in spite of the status of the hospital as “work in progress”, i was surprised to find that part of its remit was to hand out condoms, free of charge. digging a little deeper (i.e. questioning my guide, perhaps a bit too aggressively) revealed that Mloka is gripped by a fierce HIV epidemic, the magnitude of which is not entirely clear. Mloka’s development as a “cosmopolitan” settlement has fuelled the epidemic, yet a darker phenomenon of a different nature has certainly not helped: outward migration, particularly of young men. in search of better economic opportunities, young men will move to Dar es Salaam, a city of over five million. this broadens the pool of potential sexual partners, increasing the risk of contracting HIV. some of those unlucky enough to catch the virus and perhaps lucky enough to find out, my guide explains, often rush back to Mloka. afraid of early death, some start families, keeping the knowledge of their condition to themselves.
as i flick through the photographs of Mloka’s empty classrooms - it would have been the weekend when i visited - i cannot help but wonder how many of Mloka’s pupils have been born with their parents’ deadly disease. i quickly dismiss the thought.
while it is still unclear how many of Mloka’s children are actually in school, about 700 attend classes. each classroom can host up to 100 children, all taught by a single teacher. yet this should not necessarily be understood as negative - Tanzania’s literacy percentage sits at almost 80%, a good number for a country with modest average income. as such, teachers’ stoic practice of imparting knowledge to 100 children at once should perhaps be understood as a feat of strength. i was particularly impressed with the transparency of the school’s spending - the budget of the school is displayed openly and is accessible at all times, even to visitors like myself.
as we made our way to the centre of the village, it dawned on me how Mloka is, for lack of a better term, socially peaceful in spite of its diversity. as Tanzania is home to over 120 tribes, it comes as no surprise that most of Mloka’s 4000 residents can trace their roots to three different groups: the Zaramo, the Pogolo, and the Hehe.
peaceful cohabitation of Mloka’s locals is certainly aided by Tanzania’s land management regulations - while i have not noticed anything actively encouraging investment or small business ownership, i have not identified any sign of active discouragement either. Mloka itself, in spite of its size, did have a fair number of small businesses, such as “Victor’s”, a tiny, yet excellent eatery in what appeared to be the centre. it could be assumed that any tensions which may erupt in Mloka and perhaps Tanzania more broadly are quelled by an ingenious land leasing system: permanent ownership is out of the question, while temporary leasing is the norm. further, any business minded individual would first have to gain the approval of the General Assembly - a body of voters constituted by any resident over the age of 18. in other words, many of the decisions pertaining to land or the village more broadly are discussed, voted upon and taken collectively. finally, any business active on local land would have to pay a monthly “development contribution” to the village, though my guide did not go into too much detail about how these funds are invested.
the village hall is where the General Assembly congregates, but it also serves other administrative purposes.
a discussion of Mloka could never be complete without considering nearby Nyerere National Park. i have been lucky enough to go on safari on my own, using the very same armoured car which had driven us from Dar es Salaam. between me and our extraordinary driver, the journey was smooth and the game plentiful. what truly made the safari special was the driver’s initiative to go completely off-road, cruising seemingly uncharted ways.
probably the closest i have ever gotten to unbridled wilderness.
the driver did unequivocally know the way, just to clarify, though he had to scout around on foot once the wetlands had swallowed up our tracks. in its vast conservation area Nyerere National Park covers a wide variety of ecosystems, ranging from somewhat arid savannah to ever-humid wetlands. to my untrained eyes it appeared that we had passed through quite a few of these markedly different ecosystems, though i suspect much better examples of each could be found deeper into the conservation area. even there could the signs of a plentiful rainy seasons could be observed, particularly around the park’s numerous bodies of water, where adjacent the adjacent vegetation had been swallowed up.
i doubt that was meant to be an aquatic tree.
it is understood that Nyerere National Park is host to numerous species - elephants, hippos, zebras, lions, even black rhinos. where my safari excelled was in the giraffe department - i am not at all unhappy about that.
a safari in the Nyerere National Park is bound to convince anyone of the area’s wealth and economic potential. it is difficult not to see why Mloka has been developing steadily over the past years and it is equally difficult not to worry about the fate of the village given all the impending changes. i may be out of my league here, but i am not worried at all. what I have witnessed as i explored Mloka and more broadly, the entirety of Selous, was resilience, adaptability, and a way of life which was delicately in tune with nature.
a special thank you to Nje Bush Camp and Msafiri Travels for all the support and patience. none of this would have been possible without you.