More than 40 years ago, one Kenyan family decided to do something practical for the threatened wildlife of its country and so the Sheldrick Wildlife Trust was born. As well as full range of conservation projects, the trust runs one of the most successful elephant rescue and rehabilitation programs anywhere in the world. To date, the carers have raised and re-introduced to the wild, more than 240 elephants and about 17 rhinoceroses.
Not surprisingly, visiting the orphan babies – some of them have lost their mothers to poaching, others have been found down wells – is one of the most popular attractions in Nairobi. Each day, for precisely one hour at 11am, guests are invited to see them drink their milk and have a mud bath.
It can all get pretty messy and noisy. The babies trumpet to one another, flop into the red pool and spray the mud over themselves and whoever happens to be standing nearby. During the whole adorable event, there’s commentary from one of the keepers about the work of the trust.
You might do a double take when you first spot the Bush Rover Company’s luxury mobile suite.
Forget soggy canvas tents, unzippable sleeping bags and drab cabins, the Bush Rover comes equipped with a stunning elevated bedroom and balcony, tasteful wood-panelled bathroom (complete with bath) and spiral staircase, as well as solar power to full hot water, lights and power sockets – you’ll need to recharge your camera batteries, after all.
This go-anywhere LandRover comes fully functional and equipped to ensure a luxurious and unforgettable African safari. But when its not traversing the vast plains of the Serengeti, rumbling through the Ngorgongoro Highlands or attempting crossings at the mighty Grumeti River, its transformation into a chic rooftop dwelling is something to behold.
Unlike fixed camps and lodges, the Bush Rover can move as often as the wildebeest migrate. The camp simply folds up and moves to the next exciting Serengeti destination leaving no trace.
The Bush Rover Company allows you to experience a safari without limitations – you can be as flexible as you want and, most importantly, you don’t have to return to a base camp at the end of every day.
Given the opportunity to cover so much more of the African landscape than on a traditional safari, you can head into isolated, remote pockets of the wilderness that aren’t normally visited. Everything is then packed up with the vehicle and carried on to your next destination, which could be anywhere along the Tanzanian migration route.
It’s the closest thing you may ever get to a sleepover with lions, elephants and wildebeest!
I’ve only been among the Ik people for a couple of hours but anything is starting to seem believable.
Mzee Mateus Yeya Acok, a headman in Uganda’s most mysterious tribe, is sitting outside the hyena-proof stockade that surrounds Nalemoru Village. Perched on a windswept ridge high above Uganda’s beautiful Kidepo Valley National Park, Nalemoru, which means ‘village on a highpoint’ in the Ik language, is well named.
In 1972 the Ik became famous in a book called The Mountain People by Oxford-educated anthropologist Colin M. Turnbull. According to Turnbull, daily life among the Ik seemed to be a constant series of almost unbelievable atrocities – teenagers gleefully stole food directly from the mouths of starving elderly; a mother celebrated when a predator relieved her of the responsibility of caring for her child; grandparents joyfully watched a baby crawl into a fire. It made powerful reading and, at the time, it shook the world of travel literature.
Images of Turnbull’s brutal characters flicker through my mind as Kidepo ranger, Phillip Akorongimoe, parks his LandCruiser and we begin our climb up Morungole Mountain with two AK47-toting troopers from the Uganda People’s Defence Force. While things have been peaceful since the disarmament that was taking place when I last travelled to the region in 2008, there are still regular patrols in this area bordering northern Kenya and South Sudan.
“Morungole was considered sacred,” wrote Turnbull. “I had noticed this by the almost reverential way with which the Ik looked at it – none of the shrewd cunning and cold appraisal with which they regard the rest of the world.”
Within an hour of climbing I’m struggling to remind myself that 50 years after those words were written, I’m on my way to a rendezvous with the nastiest people in the world. This is even harder to imagine because Mzee Hillary, a 64-year-old Ik man with a charmingly open smile and a chatty demeanour, has joined our little convoy to guide us to his highland home.
As we trek, Mzee Hillary points out the sacred fig trees where animal sacrifices are made to bring the rain and shows me shady copses where wild honey is collected to be used in Ik marriage ceremonies. There are groves of medicinal bushes that serve as a natural pharmacy, treating everything from earache to constipation to scorpion stings. We are joined by a group of Ik women and children carrying water from the stream. They seem determined to fill every minute of the three-hour walk with happy chatter and laughter and I wonder if these people are the same tribe that Turnbull travelled among for almost two years, complaining that his efforts to understand them were constantly frustrated by their moody silence. Back then the Ik still lived in the lowlands and although Turnbull tried to convince guides to take him to the peak, he never visited Morungole and describes it in his book as “a dark mass, always hidden in haze”.
Our trail follows a narrow ridge, overlooking the sweeping curve of Kidepo Valley, and South Sudan, which seems just a stone’s throw away. About 50 kilometres away in the other direction is the Turkana country of northern Kenya. Over the centuries, the Ik had become accustomed to persecution from all sides; they were trapped between warlike tribes such as the Toposa and Didinga of Sudan and at the mercy of cattle-crazed Turkana warriors from Kenya.
“We would buy cattle from the Turkana,” one old man tells me, “but they would follow us home and steal the cattle back again. In those raids Ik often died.”
“It was like a deadly game of football,” my guide Phillip explains. “Sometimes the different tribes played at home. Sometimes they played away. And always the Ik were caught in the middle.”
The misty summit rises steeply against gathering storm clouds when we finally reach the Ik’s highest village. The thatched roofs of the bandas (huts) are barely discernible behind the thorny stockade that protects precious goats from leopards and raiders, and people from hyena-riding witches. Elder Mzee Paulino Lukuam greets me with an exchange of the triple-grip handshake that is habitual among many African people. I know it took Turnbull a long time before being allowed to see inside a village, so I’m surprised when Mzee Paulino invites me into his private compound within minutes of meeting. I have to crouch to crawl through the low door into the round mud-and-thatch banda that’s about three metres in diameter. I’d read that Ik parents evict their children to sleep outside, curled like dogs from the age of three, but Paulino and his wife share their little hut with seven children.
As we duck through the asak – the low tunnel out of the family compound – Phillip tells me, “They’re still proud of a culture that has remained [almost] untainted. One almost unique thing about the Ik compared with other tribes in this area is that there is virtually no sex outside marriage and most women will only ever sleep with one man in their lives.”
I wonder how this tradition could have remained alive when, according to Turnbull’s experiences when he lived here in 1965 to 1966, Ik women “regarded their bodies as their greatest assets in the game of survival”.
I am no closer to solving the mystery of the British anthropologist’s bitter relationship with the tribe, but then mystery has surrounded the Ik for thousands of years. Nobody is sure where they originated but linguists have noted similarities between the Ik language and speech from southern Egypt. I’ve heard mystifying rumours their language was peppered with words that sounded Latin and Phillip had told me some Spanish travellers he’d brought here were even able to decipher occasional words. I question old Mzee Mateus in Spanish with no success whatsoever, but he’s eventually able to explain the mystery: apparently an Italian Catholic pastor called Father Florence had lived among the Ik in the 1960s and 1970s and had left many words behind including a tradition of Christian names.
When Kidepo Valley National Park was gazetted in 1958, the British colonial government forced the Ik to stop their traditional hunting and move to the foothills. By the early 1980s, pressure from neighbouring tribes, along with drought and famine, had forced the Ik to take to the peak of their sacred mountain. The Ik, now having dwindled to a total population of around 10,000, have retreated as far as they can possibly go.
Only once did the Ik take Turnbull close to Mount Morungole – to what they called their Place of God. “…The Ik had become increasingly uncommunicative,” he wrote. “Never again would they take me near that place, or talk about it. But, as little as I knew, I felt that for a brief moment I had made contact with an elusive reality, a reality that was fast retreating beyond Ik consciousness.”
Mzee Mateus was a young headman when Turnbull came to visit and remembers the anthropologist (who died in 1994). When I show him a copy of The Mountain People he is excited to recognise some old friends in the aged black-and-white pictures.
I don’t mention the contents of the book but the old man says, “I heard that he wrote some impolite things about us.
“If Colin Turnbull ever came back I would simply tell him, ‘Please, there is no business here that we are going to welcome you for. Please leave us and go home.’”Mzee Mateus Yeya Acok is now almost 90 years old and believes that he has been blessed with a long life because, as a boy and young man, he always obeyed his parents. As he speaks, the younger people and children huddle around us, listening to the old man’s reminiscences in respectful silence.
“When I was a boy we’d sit on the plains staring at the peaks of Morungole with its colobus monkeys and great stores of wild honey,” he tells. “Now we sit on Morungole shivering in the cold, gazing over the savannah far below with the endless game that is now forbidden to us. Life has always been hard for the Ik but we’re tough. Times will keep changing but in another thousand years there will still be Ik on Morungole Mountain.”
You never forget your first time. I never will. It was on a plane, a Cessna Grand Caravan, and we were flying above the shores of Lake Nakuru. The microphone on my headset was pushed away from my mouth so my frequent squeals and exclamations wouldn’t annoy my fellow passengers. It was tangled in my hair, but I managed to get it back to my lips.
“Rhinoceros!” I yelled, microphone finally readjusted. “It’s a rhinoceros.”
Of course, by the time I manage to spit out the words for my first ever rhino sighting, we’ve flown too far for the nine others onboard to gaze downwards. Instead, everyone is scanning the area below where huge flocks of flamingos are feeding. It is an extraordinary sight. Anyone who has bumped across the plains in a 4WD on safari will know the thrill of spotting any new species for the first time, but spying it from a small plane offers a completely different perspective.
We are winging across Kenya on Scenic Air Safaris’ Endangered Species Safari, a nine-day adventure that will take us into the Maasai Mara in the southwest corner of the country, north past Mount Kenya to the reserves of Samburu and Lewa, and onto the high, dry plateau of Laikipia. Along the way, rather than simply taking guided safaris from luxury camps, we are being accompanied by wildlife experts, many of whom study the continent’s most at-risk animals. It is a rare opportunity to see what conservationists and communities are doing to haul back species from the brink of extinction.
But there is another unique aspect to this journey. The company’s Cessna not only allows guests to travel to Kenya’s farthest corners, it also offers a unique perspective of the landscape and wildlife. Rather than taking off, flying at height and landing, our pilot, Murtaza Walijee, takes any opportunity to descend so we can observe the movements of visible animals. At about 150 metres, it’s possible to spot giraffes plucking leaves from treetops, hippos wallowing in shallow pools, and elephants trudging along dry river beds. None seems offended by the low-flying single-prop aircraft.
It’s one of the most comfortable ways you’ll ever safari – each of the padded, first-class seats has its own window, so you never miss a thing. Plus, at the beginning of each flight, everyone takes turns to call shotgun for the co-pilot’s spot.
My early rhino experience has me excited to get closer to these curious creatures, but first we are on the way to Laikipia, where Simon Kenyon has been surveying African wild dogs. From his base at Sosian Lodge, he’s come to the conclusion there are about 300 in the region. In all of Africa, it’s thought there are probably only about 3500 dogs, which makes them as rare as pandas.
“Much of the land around here used to be cattle and sheep farms, so the dogs would go through and kill 50 sheep in a single night,” he tells us as we’re parked high on a ridge, transmitter out, trying to get a read on where one of the packs may be thanks to collars on a couple of the dogs. “The farmers would shoot them, but they’re also susceptible to rabies and canine distemper.”
So rare were the dogs, with their big ears and dark spots painted on tan fur, Simon was 18 before he even saw one – it was love at first sight. It
set him on a path to discover as much as possible about the smallest of Kenya’s big carnivores.
We get a signal from one of the collars and set off. “They are fascinating and there is such a family dynamic,” says Simon of the dogs as we bounce along a rough track through thorny bush and prickly pears. “When they’re moving and on a mission, they are unbelievable machines. They can travel at up to 50 kilometres an hour.” Working in a pack, they’ll chase prey until the unfortunate animal is completely exhausted. At which point the dogs pounce and tear it to pieces. It’s a bloody jungle out there.
Thankfully, some of the younger dogs with an alpha male have decided to take a break in the shade of a tree. They twitter and yip, sounding a lot like a flock of birds, to communicate with one another. Occasionally, one trots off, peers around, then flops again beneath a bush. Nothing to see here.
We began our journey in the Maasai Mara National Reserve, landing at Keekorok Airstrip to be met by Justin McCarthy and his team from Spirit of the Masai Mara. Soon, we are off in open-top 4WDs to find some of the reserve’s big cats, and the experts – Mara Lion Project’s Niels Mogensen, Dr Elena Chelysheva, who has spent 30 years studying cheetahs, and David Mascall, who’s worked with lions for most of his life – are along for the ride. Within 15 minutes, another driver has radioed through the location of a leopard.
When we arrive, it’s hiding in a hollow trying, one suspects, to escape the heat of the day. It stares and we peer back. Soon, annoyed by cameras whirring and people whispering and pointing, the leopard leaps from its hide, roaring and lunging at the truck before slinking off into the undergrowth. It happens so fast, there is no time to react. One of us could easily have ended up as a leopard lunch.
Dr Chelysheva’s assistant Mandela is soon on the radio, too, reporting the presence of three cheetahs. We park away from the thicket hiding them and soon enough they pad out. Not too far away is a pride of lionesses and their cubs in all stages of adolescence trying to shade themselves from the sun’s rays. One of the largest is lying on her back, paws in the air, revealing her stomach in an attempt to stay cool.
The presence of these big cats is awe-inspiring, particularly as David reveals that three years ago, he’d seen only one lion in the neighbouring Siana Conservancy, where the lodge is located, over the course of two weeks. As we return for dinner, he asks the driver to slow down so he can find the resident pride, which now numbers 14. We spy them in a stand of trees, drinking from a large puddle.
“It takes a lot to kill a lion,” Justin tells me later. “I’ve seen a giraffe take the skin off the head of one and a couple of weeks later it’s been fine.” Of course, humans are a far greater threat to big cats than fellow plains animals, but there are a number of initiatives being implemented so herders and their animals are protected from predation and vice versa. One has been incredibly simple – using solar power to illuminate holding yards at night. Neither lions nor leopards like the artificial light and leave the domestic animals alone.
In the following days, we fly to Samburu to spend time with Saba Douglas-Hamilton and her husband Frank Pope at Save the Elephants. Her father, Iain, formed the organisation in 1993. Now, it tracks 97 Kenyan elephants (and about 130 more across the rest of Africa) using collars fitted with SIM cards.
Out in the bush, Saba introduces us to some of the elephants who live nearby. Anwar is a young bull with a fascination for LandCruisers. He’ll walk right up and sit on the bonnet, she tells us. He’s even smashed a couple of windscreens. “Not out of maliciousness,” says Saba, “but because he’s had his tusks on the bonnet and just moved.”
Another bull, Ban Ki-moon, approaches our parked vehicle. He’s in musth, a breeding cycle male elephants go through. Not only do they secrete from glands near their ears and urinate constantly, but they also become aggressive.
“Whatever you do, don’t move,” Saba says to me as Ban Ki advances. The hairs raise on the back of my neck when he gets so close I can smell the pheromones on his skin. I want to place my hand on his broad head, which is within my reach, but I take a deep breath and remain completely still. Finally, Ban Ki flaps his ears, sending a wave of a fusty hormones over me, before plodding off in search of something more interesting.
Back at Elephant Watch Camp, Saba and Frank tell of how they’ve worked with communities in recent years, convincing them living wildlife is far more valuable in the long term than a dead elephant’s tusks. Finally, it seems the message is taking hold, with elephant numbers increasing and incidences of poaching decreasing. “In 2013, we managed to turn the community against the poachers,” Saba explains. “There were these epic meetings under the trees with all the community and no one would admit they had poachers in their midst.” Finally, one man, who admitted he had killed elephants, stood up. “He pointed out men – 19 in all – who he knew were poachers.”
They’ve also collaborated with Chinese celebrities, like actor Li Bingbing and basketball player Yao Ming, to spread the word about the damage inflicted by ivory poaching. It seems to have worked. On New Year’s Day in 2017, the Chinese government banned the domestic sale and processing of ivory.
The story is similar in the Lewa Wildlife Conservancy, where comparable methods are being used to save rhinos. Each and every rhinoceros that lives on the almost 40,000 hectares – Lewa is managed in conjunction with the neighbouring Borana Conservancy – can be identified, either by markings, their horns or by notches added to their ears.
At a bunker where collared rhinos are tracked and monitored, scientist Ian Lemaiyan runs through the figures. In the 1960s, there were about 70,000 black rhinos in Kenya; by 1993 there were only 2475. Now, it’s thought the population has grown to about 5000. In the Lewa and Borana region there are 63, as well as 75 white rhinos, the more docile, grass-eating species.
Lewa is divided into nine blocks and six rangers will patrol each sector 24 hours a day. “Every time a ranger spots a rhino he radios back to the control centre, identifies the rhino, where it is, its condition and its behaviour,” says Ian. If one hasn’t been seen in three days, the situation is considered critical. On day four, rangers go out specifically looking for it and, if that rhino still hasn’t been found by day five, the helicopter is deployed. If a whole week passes, every resource, including armed security, is sent out to search. It’s serious business.
Thankfully, there have been few recent poaching incidents; Lewa has had none in the past three years.
“The community is our first defence,” says Ian. Health clinics, school libraries and bores have been built, and farmers are allowed to graze their cattle on conservancy land when it’s particularly dry in exchange for protection of the endangered animals. “We’ve also built an education centre so children from across northern Kenya can understand the value of the wildlife.”
As we drive through the conservancy we spot herds of the endangered Grevy’s zebra – hunted almost to extinction for their beautiful hide – and a number of rhinos in the distance, but then see Zaria and her calf just off a track. Up close these are huge and unusual beasts, with wide mouths and enormous horns that appear as though they could skewer any number of poachers. Zaria stomps her feet and shakes her head in warning as we get too close, before putting herself between the 4WD and her baby and marching off.
Thinking back to that first glimpse of a rhinoceros far below our plane, I feel privileged to have been able to see these amazing animals from just metres away. But, more importantly, thankful to the humans who dedicate their lives to ensuring other visitors to Kenya will be able to gawp at these species for generations to come.
Sick of feeling relaxed but unfulfilled after a resort holiday or wildlife adventure? Looking for a trip that inspires and gives back to the community? You’ve come to the right place. This unique women-only tour focuses on empowering women and supporting aid organisations that help women achieve their goals and reach their full potential in Uganda.
This social-enterprise experience, created by Yvonne Verstandig, co-founder and head of leisure at Executive Edge Travel, takes you to the heart of Uganda for 10 nights, including four days of adventure incorporating remote tribal villages and gorilla trekking.
Co-hosted by Suzy Zail, internationally acclaimed author of The Tattooed Flower, The Wrong Boy and Alexander Altman A10567, the women-only tour combines safaris in the Kidepo Valley National Park and tracking gorillas on foot in the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest, as well as meeting not-for-profit and aid organisations, building a mud hut for a disadvantaged family, visiting schools and participating in girls’ empowerment training.
To gain experiential insights into the day-to-day activities of life in Uganda, community members will share their stories and provide hands-on opportunities. Travellers will be trained by a village elder to weave a basket, learn about obstacles preventing girls from reaching their potential and assist aid organisations working to improve the lives of girls.
Interactive workshops, storytelling and discussion groups with leading female change-makers are also included, as is a meeting with a witch doctor, attendance at a drumming workshop, a tour of the Bwaise slum and visiting schools.
Looking for a challenging hiking experience through spectacular scenery? Well, pack your hiking boots for 22 hours of trekking through the wildlife-filled landscapes of Ethiopia’s Bale Mountains.
Your first day starts with a leisurely stroll around Addis Ababa. With its wide avenues of jacaranda trees, fascinating museums, one of the largest open-air markets in Africa and a temperate climate of 25°C year round, it’s the perfect way to ease into your trek.
Travel to Wendo Genet, known for its natural hot springs and forests, and visit the Rift Valley lakes of Ziway, Abiyatta, Shalla and Langano, renowned for their abundant birdlife. Of course, you’ll get to enjoy soaking your muscles in the springs.
A drive to Dinsho, the headquarters of Bale Mountains National Park, will reveal some of the endemic mammals of Ethiopia, including the mountain nyala, a type of antelope. You’ll head off on foot to be one of the fortunate 200 people each year to trek through this landscape. Look out for giant lobelia plants that can reach up to five metres and stand guard over the undulating plateau. After five to six hours of trekking through this prehistoric expanse of glacial lakes and swamps surrounded by volcanic peaks, you’ll arrive at the stunning campsite of Meraro.
Trek beneath the peaks before making a steep ascent onto the Sanetti Plateau, which is covered by Afro-alpine moorland and resembles a lunar landscape. Keep your peepers peeled for the endemic Ethiopian wolf, Africa’s most endangered carnivore. There are only 500 in existence but they are readily spotted on the plateau.
For five to six hours you’ll climb Mount Batu, one of the highest peaks in Ethiopia then trek across the arms of the Batu horseshoe to a campsite beside Garba Guracha. This lake is set beneath towering cliffs at the head of the Tegona Valley.
With almost a thousand species of birds, Ethiopia is one of the best bird-watching destinations in the world and the highland lakes are frequented by more than 10 endemic species. Look out for the Abyssinian woodpecker, Somali chestnut winged starling and mountain buzzard.
After a three-hour scenic drive from Goba to Nazareth, you’ll visit the Arsi Mountains and the famous barley plantations of the Oromo people. Then come full circle back to Addis Ababa on the eve of Timket, the biggest religious festival in Ethiopia.
The Timket festival is a three-day event celebrating the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan River. Priests remove the tabots (replicas of the Ark of Covenant) from each church and march to the nearest water source, where the communal baptism takes place. Like no other celebration you’ll ever witness, the ceremony includes thousands of white-robed faithful following a procession of colourfully dressed priests shaded by sequinned velvet umbrellas.
For the denouement, unwind with a little shopping or sightseeing around Addis, including a visit to the National Archaeological Museum of Addis Ababa, the Merkato (open air market), and climb Mount Entoto for a panoramic view of the city.
She latched onto me before I knew what was happening,” wildlife photographer and cinematographer Shannon Wild says of the moment a cheetah went in for the kill.
Shannon had been working with the habituated cheetah on a video shoot all morning and had, in her own words, become “complacent”, missing the signs that the animal was getting flustered. She crouched down to set up her next shot and, like a flash, the cheetah had her pinned down, its jaws clamping hard on her left arm, which it mistook for her neck.
Had Shannon’s head not been tilted to the side, that bite could well have been fatal. As it turned out, she suffered serious nerve and tendon damage, the effects of which she still feels two years later.
“I wasn’t able to shoot for two months after that as it healed, and I still have daily nerve pain and not complete flexibility in my left arm, but it could have been so much worse,” she says of the eye-opening incident. “Instinct told me to relax and not fight it, which was the best thing to do in the situation, as fighting her would have led to worse injuries.”
It served as an important lesson for the South African-based freelancer from Australia. She gained a newfound respect for the cheetah and has learned to pay closer attention to the body language of the animals she films.
“The very reason we, and certainly I, love wildlife is because they run on instinct,” Shannon says. “She was simply doing what she was designed to do.”
Despite her increased vigilance, getting up close and personal with some of the world’s most exotic wild animals is bound to result in the odd painful moment. The knuckle on her shutter finger will never be the same after a particularly nasty nip from a monitor lizard, a nice accompaniment to her collection of snakebites. She has found herself in the crosshairs of charging lions and elephants, has fought off burrowing worms and stomach-eating bacteria, and has even been chomped on the face by, of all things, a pet dog.
Shannon’s best advice for interacting with the potentially dangerous creatures (and dogs) she films is to remain composed and exude positivity.
“Energy has a huge role to play, and I am naturally calm and positive when in the presence of animals,” she explains. “Negative energy such as frustration, impatience and fear are readily sensed by most animals, which in turn can have a negative effect on their behaviour.”
For someone with Shannon’s passion for wildlife, these battle wounds serve as wake-up calls rather than deterrents.
Having worked as a graphic designer and art consultant before slowly shifting her focus toward photography, Shannon made the fairly rapid decision to move to South Africa and start afresh as a freelancer specialising in wildlife. Building a profile and learning to live without a regular salary was difficult at first, and still presents its challenges. However, more than a decade later, the gutsy move has paid massive dividends, with Shannon having established herself as a leading wildlife photographer before transitioning into cinematography. She has now worked with producers including National Geographic and Disney Nature, with plenty more projects on the boil.
“Freelancing allows me the variety I crave,” she says. “I love travelling to new places and photographing new species. I couldn’t imagine having to only work in the one place any more.”
Shannon estimates that, to this point, her freelance work has taken her to around 25 different countries. One of her most recent trips, an expedition to the Arctic, saw her filming polar bears, whales and walruses in such extreme cold that she lost feeling in her hands mid-shoot. Just a few months earlier she’d been baking under the Botswanan sun, unable to find respite from the heat, which ranged from 45ºC during the day to a comparatively chilly 38ºC at night.
“It feels like your brain is cooking in your head and it can be hard to concentrate for long periods,” she recalls. “Constantly wetting my clothes and hair helps, but it’s one of those situations I have to suck up and remember how lucky I am to get to do this.”
The reward for all this hardship? For an animal lover and conservation crusader like Shannon, the payoff is intangible.
She fondly recalls “seeing a baby elephant learn to drink through its trunk for the first time instead of kneeling down and drinking with its mouth. It was amazing to see and so precious when I saw that ‘ah ha’ moment for him. He was incredibly proud.” Equally rewarding was the time a family of baboons in Zimbabwe accepted her into their circle, allowing their young to climb over her.
But, fittingly, Shannon’s all-time career highlight came courtesy of the king of the jungle.
“Hearing a male lion roar for the first time with him standing only a metre or two from me is something I’ll never forget. I teared up, and it’s still my absolute favourite sound to this day. It literally vibrates through your chest.”
In a moment like that, all the dehydration, flesh-eating bacteria and cheetah maulings in the world pale into insignificance.
In the High Atlas Mountains, Cheikh is handling the switchbacks like a Formula One racer, negotiating trucks, cars, bikes and donkeys along winding one-way roads. We give way at each unguarded hairpin bend, swerving into the gravel perilously close to the cliff edge.
In just two hours since leaving Marrakesh, we’ve climbed nearly 2000 metres. Daylight reveals the iron hues of the High Atlas and the enormous scope of the mountain range. For the next three nights I will be camping on Morocco’s biggest and wildest dune, Erg Chigaga, about 500 kilometres southeast of Marrakesh. Getting there is a rugged 10-hour journey across inhospitable terrain.
We pass clusters of Berber villages camouflaged by the mountains. At times the buildings are hard to distinguish from abandoned ruins. Hunched elderly women piggyback bulging loads, seemingly en route to nowhere, and children lead donkeys laden with cargo along dangerous passes.
Mid-morning we turn off at Telouet, a decrepit kasbah built in the late 1800s for the ruling Glaoui family. It’s positioned along the ancient trade route between the Sahara and Marrakesh, and its crumbling facade conceals protected spoils inside. In room after room, every centimetre is covered in ornate mosaics and carvings. It seems an eager designer was given carte blanche and adopted every material and technique in the artists’ handbook. It’s incredible this deserted time capsule is so well preserved and open for visitors to freely explore. I wish our visit lasted longer than a leg stretch.
We next stop at the fortified city of Aït Benhaddou, now a UNESCO World Heritage site. Located beside the dry Ounila River, its imposing defensive walls conceal a labyrinth of packed-earth buildings. Decaying alleys are filled with shops catering to the hordes of tourists drawn here by its Hollywood fame. You have to use your imagination, but Lawrence of Arabia, The Mummy and Gladiator were all filmed here. More recently, the city also formed the backdrop for Yunkai and Pentos in TV juggernaut Game of Thrones. After I channel my best Russell Crowe impression in the gladiatorial arena, we are swiftly back on the road.
We travel through the Anti-Atlas range then on to Agdz at the start of the Draa Valley. A lush oasis of three million date palms accompanies us on the two-hour journey to Zagora. There’s an occasional roadside dune, and Cheikh explains just how far the sand has blown beyond the Sahara – it has a crippling impact, burying roads and clogging village water systems. Braided palm-leaf mats are scattered across the dunes, evidence of an international aid project to try and smother the encroaching sand.
By late afternoon we leave civilisation behind, heading off road at M’Hamid. For two hours we drive, blindly it would seem, with no signposts or markers to guide our way. As we are thrown around undulating dunes and Cheikh wrestles with the steering wheel, it becomes clear why the camp is only accessible by four-wheel drive. Few drivers know the desert well enough to locate the camp, which lies 20 kilometres from the Algerian border and remains hidden until we clear the last rise.
The Erg Chigaga Luxury Desert Camp is as remote as you’ll find. I’m greeted by Bobo, a beaming Moroccan partner of the camp who was born and raised in the desert with his nomad family. I’m in safe hands. Carpet pathways intersecting a central fire pit lead to 10 guest tents, a dining tent and lounge shelters all blending into the dunes.
My Berber tent is authentically decorated yet pimped out with western comforts. Within the circus-like striped walls, filigree lamps flank a bejewelled queen-size bed and carpet softens my step. Robes and slippers await. Most impressive is the adjoining bathroom annex. Decked out in Moroccan pewter, it features a portable toilet tucked behind a modesty screen, an elegant wash stand, dressing table and a charming bathing station. At any time I can request a hot pail of water for hand-bathing, Queen of Sheba style.
With sunset looming, Bobo suggests I ditch my shoes and join the other guests high in the dunes. It’s an exhausting climb as the scalding sand collapses beneath every step. My efforts are duly rewarded with a glass of chilled wine at the top, just as the sun slinks behind the horizon.
Hours later, back in my tent, I wake to winds violently shaking the canvas walls. I scramble to fashion a barricade to block the desert from blasting its way in, with little success. By morning the tent walls are still rippling like a wobble board and inside is blanketed with sand. My bed is gritty, my throat parched and my teeth crunch. A peek outside reveals a blur of sand – there’s no one to be seen. It is a taste of how inhospitable the desert can be. In the late afternoon the winds finally recede and everyone emerges.
Sandboarding and sundowners at the big dunes are the perfect release from a bout of cabin fever. As the name suggests, these formations are epic. We scale the largest one, displacing perfectly formed corrugated waves of sand to reach the top, which gives way to a huge skate bowl – the perfect launch site. I tuck my feet under straps and shuffle to the edge. Going straight down is terrifying, but moving in any other direction is like sliding through sludge. When the board continues to bog and toss, I plant my behind and careen down the dune toboggan-style.
Aside from the occasional nomad camp, we are totally isolated in a sea of golden dunes. The setting sun accentuates each contour. The camp staff has arranged pouffes and tables at the top of the dunes, creating a delightful open-air bar. As the sun retreats we are reduced to tiny specks silhouetted against a vast landscape.
Evenings in the camp among the many flickering lanterns are quite magical. After a communal feast of tagine, couscous and vegetables, we gather around the fire with wine in hand as the staff serenades us, their chanting melodies hypnotic against the drumming and clanging castanets. The star-riddled sky is an astronomer’s dream, with shooting stars regularly streaking overhead.
The camels have been saddled for a morning ride and mine lets out an impressive gurgling yodel before dropping to its haunches so I can climb on board. At first the pace resembles that of a rhythmic rocking horse, but as we hit the dunes it builds into a hold-on-tight bucking bronco ride. These Berber beasts are built for the sand with their splayed hoofs, but their lanky legs are clumsy on descent.
With the advantage of height, I witness the rapidly changing character of the desert. Carved ridges resemble the spine of a basking stegosaurus one moment, then morph into a valley of smooth feminine curves the next. Later they transform into a sculpted wave, appearing motionless and posed as though for our photographic pleasure. Just as the cramps in my groin become unbearable, we break for lunch.
A set table and lounge area await under a shaded canopy, the provisions having made the journey by 4WD. Lazing in this cool sanctuary with a fully stocked esky, I can’t believe my luck: the setting is close to perfect. Suddenly an approaching quad bike disturbs the peace and I glimpse Bobo behind the handlebars. He is en route to a smaller private camp and offers me the chance to hitch a ride.
Bobo understands the dunes, and it’s a thrilling, slightly terrifying, rollercoaster ride. Many times we are halfway up one of the steepest dunes when he aborts, only to return, heavy on the throttle, packing more speed. I squeeze Bobo tightly as we rocket up, then quickly lean far back as we pitch down. He chuckles each time I shriek as we come close to toppling.
On my final morning I set out in the dark and head into the dunes with a thermos of coffee. The sand is freezing and I’m shivering despite wearing a scarf and beanie. It feels really good to be cold. This simple desert life offers true escapism, and I savour these final views in the early-morning light. I love that there is no posh back-up hotel nearby, yet I cannot wait for the shower and dust-free towels that await in Marrakesh. A piece of the Sahara is leaving with me – engrained in my memories and my suitcase.
This is an eden in the Indian Ocean; a tropical paradise only a stone’s throw from the rest of Tanzania – the islands that make up the archipelago are semi-autonomous – and mainland Africa.
On the main island, confusingly known as Zanzibar internationally but Unguja locally, stroll the charming labyrinth of alleys, bazaars, mosques and grand Arab houses in Stone Town, where nothing much has changed in hundreds of years. Soak up the sometimes horrifying history of this once major port – ruled by the Omanis for hundreds of years, they traded not only in ivory but also people – then skip over to some of the island’s impossibly beautiful beaches. For something a little different, go to Nungwi, on the island’s northern tip, to see craftsmen building dhows, the traditional sailing boats.
The other island, Pemba, sees even fewer visitors. It has a much more interesting landscape than its neighbour, with hills jutting up over its interior and much of the island covered in clove crops and fruit trees. Most people come here for what’s under the water though. The outstanding coral reefs are pristine, and there’s everything from spectacular wall to breathtaking drift dives.
But did you know that on the banks of the River Nile, in the heart of the Sudanese desert sits a collection of some 200 pyramids.
The forgotten pyramids of Meroë were once the centre of the ancient Kingdom of Kush, now modern-day Sudan. Though it was founded around 750BC, Meroë was not named the Kushite capital until 590BC after the fall of Napata. Ruled by the Nubian kings, Meroë thrived along a well-formed trade route that provided resources for the region. This UNESCO World Heritage Site now stands as a reminder this ancient civilisation’s history and is a place of burial for the former kings and queens of the lost nation.
(
