The Small(er) 5

Safari is the raison d’être of East African tourism, like the pyramids in Egypt or cheap fags in Calais. For some undefined reason, flying halfway across the world to watch a variety of amusingly shaped mammals avoiding each other has become one of the must-do travel experiences of our time, alongside frolicking with dolphins and throwing yourself out of a plane. For some folk, of course, seeing a lioness tear through the flesh of a baby zebra is the stuff of childhood dreams, but for others, it seems that much of safari’s attraction lies in its exclusivity.

Put simply, safaris don’t come cheap. In Tanzania, you’re unlikely to find a tour for under $120 per day, and these budget safaris often come with a big catch (a lack of big cats being one example). The upper end of the price spectrum, meanwhile, is pretty much nonexistent, with 7-star hotels, hot air balloon rides and sundowners on the Serengeti meaning it’s possible to spend the equivalent of the region’s GDP tailoring the trip to your ‘needs’.

We opted for a three-day mid-range safari on the Northern Circuit, covering the Ngorogoro, Tarangire and Lake Manyara national parks. (The Serengeti, also on the Northern Circuit, is a bit further afield.) Now for someone used to shoestring travel, this ‘mid-range’ seems pretty luxurious. For one thing, all travel is by means of chauffeur-driven, air-conditioned, low-emission 4x4 (the kind you see in swanky London boroughs). On top of this, the game lodges are plush, expansive affairs, complete with pools, terraces and the obligatory colonial-era trappings (everything from wicker chairs to a waiting staff comprising tribesmen in over-starched uniforms).

And then there are the game drives themselves. Needless to say, attempting to convey the spectacle of safari in writing is a fairly impoverished venture, like describing the taste of a single malt whiskey or reviewing an opera on Twitter. For this reason, I offer only some brief and entirely anthropomorphic highlights from our short safari, starting with the Ngorogoro Crater.

A volcanic caldera over 600m deep, the Ngorogoro Crater is like the inverse of Conan Doyle’s tepui-top Lost World. Inside are some 25,000 large mammals whose forebears, by virtue of their isolation, escaped the crosshairs of colonial hunters. Today, tourists visit the crater with high hopes of spying the so-called ‘Big 5’ (elephant, buffalo, lion, leopard and rhinoceros), which exist here in greater numbers than almost anywhere else in Africa. Of these, the first three are usually easy to see, the latter pair almost impossible. And so, to make things more interesting, I resolved to establish an alternative, ‘Small(er) 5’, namely, the jackal, the mongoose, the serval, the aardvark and the honey badger. What odds of sighting this motley crew?

The Ngorogoro Crater is vast, flat and relatively treeless, which gives its sweeping, sunburnt savanna a faded, painterly quality. As such, your chances of spotting anything more interesting than a mosquito can seem surprisingly slim, but a decent pair of binoculars should tip things back in your favour. And if like me you’re prone to nerdy excess and have bought a pair of Russian military 90x magnification binoculars off eBay, well, more power to you. (In Soviet Russia, animals spot you!) Not long after entering the crater, they’re already justifying their inclusion. While my fellow safari-goers amuse themselves with a pack of sleepy lions, I’m transfixed by a black and grey blob about a mile in the distance. Could it be? It is! A honey badger! The world’s most cantankerous creature! He shuffles about, rooting for things, chewing at bits and bobs. And while all eyes are on the lions, he and I share a moment, a second or two in which I am the only one aware of his presence, and probably the only one who cares. But a honey badger? – it’s worth ten lions! Later in the day, as the sun slips low across the sky, our path is crossed by a serval - the cheetah’s foppish cousin - and we leave the crater happy, with two of the ‘Small(er) 5’ under our belts. (Not literally of course; smuggling wild animals in one’s trousers is a crime, not to mention a pain in the arse.)

Our next port of call is Lake Manyara, described by Ernest Hemingway in one of his less eloquent moments as the ‘loveliest [lake] in Africa’. The surrounding national park is largely forested, which makes for more intimate encounters with the various inhabitants. Among these, the tree-climbing lions usually receive top billing, but I’m more intrigued by the characterful co-stars, and none so much as the jackal (the Steve Buscemi of the animal world). This time the binoculars aren’t needed, just a vociferous shout of ‘STOP!!’ to our driver-cum-guide, who seems hell-bent on delivering us lions at the expense of all other creatures (presumably because his tip usually depends on it). Beside our car strides a side-striped jackal, an elegant little omnivore, aloof yet amicable: a lesson in humility for those limelight-hogging lions... 3 out of 5.

Last on our itinerary is Tarangire, a park famed for its giant, Ent-like baobabs and, moreover, for its myriad herds of elephants. There are enough of the latter here to make a thousand grand pianos, but of more interest to me are the towering, organ-like termite mounds and their furry little squatters. Though 10,000 times smaller than an African elephant, the dwarf mongoose is no less intriguing. (In fact, given that they take down snakes for a living and team up with hornbills to go foraging, you could argue that the mongoose is a whole lot more interesting. I mean, when was the last time you saw an elephant wrestle with a poisonous reptile twice its size? (That’s a rhetorical question.)) So a mongoose I was after, and mongooses I got. As well as bedding down in empty termite nests, the little fellows like to hide beneath rocks in the dry riverbed, and it’s here, among the baboons and vervet monkeys, that I spot a 10-strong family group. 4 out of 5.

And that was that. Alas, the final creature on my list – the aardvark – eluded us this time, but then you’ve got to have something to come back for. And this is the thrill of safari: there’s always something more to see. With a keen eye, a strong stomach and an appreciation for all creatures great and small, you’ll find that the wild world heritage of Tanzania serves up an endlessly engaging drama, a play of life and death, tragedy and farce, in which our own species was once but a background player.

The Kili Instinct

“Kilimanjaro is a pretty tricky climb you know; most of it's up until you reach
the very, very top, and then it tends to slope away rather sharply.”

- Graham Chapman (1941-1989)

What is it with people and mountains? According to Friedrich Nietzsche, ‘he who climbs upon the highest mountains laughs at all tragedies, whether real or imagined’. Fair enough. But is this really a rationale, or just a sign of high-altitude deliria? When asked why he wanted to climb Everest, George Mallory famously replied: ‘Because it’s there.’ Unfortunately for Mallory, so too would his corpse soon be. (Nietzsche, a keen mountaineer himself, would have probably found this hilarious.) ‘Apparently, more people have died climbing Kilimanjaro than Everest’, I tell my mother as she bids us (her husband and three children) farewell at the airport. This trip should be a laugh-fest.

In truth, the death rate on Kilimanjaro pales in comparison to the sheer number of climbers who set out to scale the mountain each year (some 25,000 in 2010). As big mountains go, ‘Kili’ is pretty user-friendly; there are several well-trodden routes, a host of trekking companies and comfortable campsites with hot running water and tea- and coffee-making facilities. And yet, at the best part of 6,000m, Africa’s highest peak is not to be laughed at (though Nietzsche probably would…). Though the climbing is non-technical - unless of course you’re one of porters (standard issue: two per person) balancing a week’s worth of food and fuel on your head – the success rate on the main routes is low, as little as 30% on the most popular approach. The cause is rarely physical exertion – the porters shoulder that burden - but rather the Russian roulette of altitude sickness, the symptoms of which are often described as being akin to the worst hangover imaginable. A sobering thought.

I’m fairly apprehensive, then, about my family’s chances of reaching Uhuru Peak. Though all of our party are in fairly good shape, that 30% success rate means that, statistically speaking, only one of us (or one and a bit – queue chortles from Nietzsche) will make it to the summit. “It’s the journey that’s important, not the destination”, we remind ourselves (30% in jest, 70% in justification).

And quite some journey it is. All the pre-trek chat about altitude sickness, sub-zero temperatures and blisters the size of sheep’s bladders had obscured the fact that this was, after all, a five-day hike through a spectacular national park. The mountain itself is a sky island, its various ecosystems having been severed from the mainland and cast adrift in a sea of cloud. Indeed, as one of the world’s tallest ‘true’ mountains, Kilimanjaro comprises five distinct ecological zones, each home to countless endemic and relict species of flora and fauna. So immense is this upturned ark that the migratory birds inhabiting its lower levels need only move a few kilometres up the mountain come change of season. Conversely, a creature at home on one part of the mountain may struggle to survive just a short distance up (as many a climber has discovered).

Our trek up Kilimanjaro follows the Marangu (a.k.a. Coca-Cola) route. (Why Coca-Cola? Because it is cheap and popular but should probably carry a health warning.) The five- or six-day climb traverses the eastern flank of the mountain, with each leg covering approximately 1,000 vertical metres and coinciding with a different ecological zone. Thus, we ascend first through the mountain’s forested skirt, its dark folds hemmed by silver streams and gleaming with floral sequins. At around 3,000 metres the trail unfurls across open moorland and the twin peaks, Uhuru and Mwenzi, make themselves known in the distance. On occasion, there appears on the horizon a great maelstrom of dust and clamour, which, as it rolls nearer, reveals itself to be the mountain rescue team: four men wheeling an improvised stretcher that looks like a door glued to unicycle. The first time we encounter this onrushing omen we’re understandably fretful, but we’re soon reassured by the good cheer of the stretcher-bearers, who sing and joke as they hurtle down the mountain with their unconscious quarry. (Clearly fans of a certain German philosopher…) Other returnees are slightly more vertical though often no less broken; ‘are they the ones that made it’, we wonder aloud, ‘or the ones that ruined themselves trying?’

Day three is an alpine desert, literally and mentally. Features on the trail, targeted as milestones, appear, like the charging knights in that Monty Python scene, perennially out of reach, while further still the mile-proud peak taunts us with its indifference. By the time one reaches Kibo Hut (4,730m), the prospect of tomorrow’s climb seems about as appetising as the cucumber soup we’re served at dinner, not least because tomorrow’s climb starts in just six hours, at 12 a.m. sharp. Between then and now, one is required to negotiate a string of ultra-banal tasks – eating, resting, visiting the little boy’s hut – which, on account of a lack of oxygen and an overabundance of underwear, are rendered epic undertakings in themselves. Thus, it is with a curious mix of abject fatigue and raw adrenalin that we set off through the midnight dark to begin our summit attempt.

Now this may hard to believe, but the six-and-a-half hours it took to reach Uhuru seemed to fly by. Needless to say, it was not in any way fun, but nor was it wholly unpleasant. My main sensation, in fact, was tedium, a pure, crystalline boredom that in time became so acute it induced a warm and fudgey hypnosis. For the entirety of the ascent, your sensory stimulation is limited to a) the feeling of listless plodding, b) the sound of heavy breathing and c) the sight (lit by head-torch) of the back of your guide’s boots. If you’re lucky, you might have d) the taste of impending vomit and e) the smell of dinner revisited (altitude plays havoc with one’s gas levels) to add to the equation, though these are but momentary distractions. The only real respite is the summit itself…

As the sun prizes open the firmament, we are greeted with a sight of untold majesty: ok, it’s still the back of our guide’s boots, but now the boots in question are rounding the crater rim, with ice fields to one side and the parched mouth of the volcano to the other. Shadows shorten, and in no time at all (well, another mind-numbing hour) we’re standing on the rooftop of Africa, surveying the continent, laughing at tragedies, queuing for a photo with the sign. And no sooner has the shutter clicked than we’re off again – this is no place for loitering – surfing down the mountain on a tide of scree. This is pretty much the story for the next two days. Our route down is the same as the one we took up, which means no new scenery but lots of fun to be had with those en route to the top. (The words ‘good luck’, we discover, uttered with a knowing smile, can fill people with both bonhomie and utter foreboding.) Gradually, life returns to the mountain, and with it civilisation. At this point, our interest in the latter extends no further than showers, beer and Internet, which we seek out (in this order) once back on flat land.

A week later, the clouds clear momentarily and the mountain graces us with a view from the plateau. A curious feeling consumes us, one probably common to all ‘real’ mountaineers; it’s nothing more profound than ‘I was there’, and strangely, there’s nothing more exhilarating.

Epilogue

In the spirit of broadcasting standards, I should point out that other Kili trekking routes are available. While Marangu is doubtless your best option if time and money are limited, most trekking companies would recommend one of the longer routes (Machame, say, or Lemosho), all of which promise a greater chance of reaching the summit. Moreover, unlike the Marangu, these other treks don’t jag back on themselves, which means a greater variety of scenery and far fewer mid-mountain traffic jams. While the latter do tend to dispel any sense of tranquillity that might be accrued on the climb, the Marangu route still offers some awesome scenery, great views and a decent range of trekking. If you’re after something much more than this, you’d be better off looking elsewhere.

The Just-So Safari

Or ‘Don’t Put All Your Eggs in One Badger’

What’s the most fearless creature in Africa? I’ll give you a clue: it’s not the lion or the leopard or the crocodile or any of the big-name beasts. And it’s not ‘man’ either – that would be silly. No. According to the Guinness Book of Records at least, it’s the cape ratel, also known as the honey badger. Now needless to say, ‘fearlessness’ is not easily quantified, so the record lacks the legitimacy of some of Guinness’ more serious entries (say, ‘world’s loudest burp’ or ‘highest jump by a guinea pig’). But in the wake of a recent internet meme, the honey badger has gained a sizeable cult following, cementing its rep as the planet’s pluckiest quadruped and the comic creature du jour.

Now being the trend-setting type, I knew about honey badgers long before they were famous - I once wrote a school report on them – but I was still eager to see one in the wild. After all, this was an animal that eats snakes for breakfast (quite literally) and fights off lions 10 times its size; who wouldn’t want to see that? So it was that on a recent trip to Tanzania, badger spotting was my number one priority.

The setting for my search was the Ngorogoro Crater, a huge volcanic caldera chock fill of charismatic creatures (well, 25,000 of them). For most folk visiting the crater, the main draw is the Big 5 (elephant, buffalo, lion, leopard and rhinoceros), so called because they are big and there are five of them. Personally, I wasn’t too fussed about the Big 5, the very notion of which seemed to reduce the complex majesty of savanna ecosystems to the status of a preschool wallchart. The others in my party were suitably enamoured however, so my hunt for the honey badger would have to be carried out as an adjunct to their surveillance.

We entered the crater at dawn. The air was cool and damp, and mist hung on the breeze like steam from some smouldering crucible. Somewhere in there, I thought to myself, is my truculent totem. Moving away from the forested flanks, we soon encountered our first big game: a mixed herd of zebra and wildebeest, punctuated by the odd warthog. Our jeep pulled up alongside them, and I quickly grabbed my binoculars and started scanning the surroundings; zebras, wildebeest, some buffalo, an ostrich or two, but alas no honey badgers… We moved on. The floor of the crater is scored by myriad twisting tracks, and it was along one of these quite arbitrary routes that we proceeded, our eyes fixed on the sunburnt scrub. After a short while we began to accelerate towards a confluence of cars on the horizon – a sure sign of action. Could it be? No. False alarm. Nothing but a pack of lugubrious lions. The day continued much in this vein, with lions and hippos and jackals and servals but still no honey badgers. And then, just as it seemed we’d go home badger-less…

…a black and white blob in the distance!

There he was, shuffling around about a mile away, a full quarter inch tall at 90x magnification. I had found my childhood hero, and it felt, well, completely underwhelming!

And here’s the moral of the story: in the hunt for a honey badger, as for travel in general, one’s enjoyment is predicated on preformed ideals. For the most part, it’s the rupture between archetype and actuality that underpins disappointment, whether in tourism or any other aspect of life; one pictures the savanna, or ‘Asia’ say, and reality fails to match up. Conversely, we find that many of the best experiences come about by purging one’s expectations - embracing the ‘is’ and not the ‘ought’. So while it’s tempting to feel that Africa ought to look like it does in our heads (a.k.a. on TV), replete with leopards and rhinos and snake-munching honey badgers, holding fast to such ideals is a recipe for disappointment. Besides, safari is about more than ticking off animals, just as travel is about more than ticking off countries. Thus, to labour the metaphor, on safari (as in life itself) one would be wise not to fixate on the black and white blobs, but to stand back and take in the whole polychrome spectacle.