Tarangire National Park
July 7, 2014
July 7, 2014
Tanzania has more than its share of fly-over country. Trouble is, we’re not flying today. Instead, we’re rumbling across some of the most desolate, inhospitable territory this side of Death Valley in a convoy of heavily-fortified Toyota Land Cruisers. The amount of wind-swept nothing on the other side of the windshield is staggering, and it’s going to fill our view for three hours as we rattle and hum toward the first of four national parks we’ll be visiting over the next five days. We are getting our obligatory African massage in the process.
On the seat next to me is a knapsack filled with snacks, notebooks, cameras, and binoculars – everything I’ll need for the safari except for one crucial item: Monica. She woke up so sick this morning that we consulted a doctor, and he recommended strongly that she not participate in the safari. After a couple agonizing hours of should-we-or-shouldn’t-we, Mo’ and I finally agreed that she’d stay at the Springlands Hotel to recuperate for the next five days while I and the rest of our group maraud across the plains in search of beasties to photograph.
It was evident within the first hour of the journey that we had made the right decision. Car travel in Africa is much more punishing than road-tripping in the States. It’s full-contact sightseeing. It almost requires a helmet.
On the seat next to me is a knapsack filled with snacks, notebooks, cameras, and binoculars – everything I’ll need for the safari except for one crucial item: Monica. She woke up so sick this morning that we consulted a doctor, and he recommended strongly that she not participate in the safari. After a couple agonizing hours of should-we-or-shouldn’t-we, Mo’ and I finally agreed that she’d stay at the Springlands Hotel to recuperate for the next five days while I and the rest of our group maraud across the plains in search of beasties to photograph.
It was evident within the first hour of the journey that we had made the right decision. Car travel in Africa is much more punishing than road-tripping in the States. It’s full-contact sightseeing. It almost requires a helmet.
Tanzania’s a whole year younger than I am, yet it has accomplished so much more. Since gaining independence in 1961, it has become one of Africa’s most peaceful and democratic nations, and it has done so despite nearly a century of colonial occupation by Germany and Great Britain, to say nothing of the incredible burden of sharing modern borders with the likes of – brace yourself – Uganda, Rwanda and the Orwellian-named Democratic Republic of the Congo. What’s more, Tanzania has demonstrated an extraordinary zeal for environmental conservation.
At just under 365,000 square miles, Tanzania is about twice the size of France. (For you Freedom Fry Francophobes out there, that’s roughly two Californias or half an Alaska.) But get this: More than 30% of Tanzania has been designated either national park land or conservation area. For the United States to protect the same percentage of territory, it would have to set aside the equivalent of Alaska, Texas, California, Montana, and much of New Mexico – basically our five biggest states. That represents a remarkable commitment on the part of Tanzania’s people. No doubt the tourist dollars these parks attract make it a little easier to maintain such a commitment. (In case you’re wondering, the U.S. currently protects about 14% of its land.)
Our destination today is Tarangire National Park (pronounced TEHR-ung-GEE-reh, with a hard G). At 1,100 square miles, it’s only the 6th largest park in Tanzania, yet it’s still a little bigger than Rhode Island if you subtract out Narragansett Bay. The park is known for all the usual animals safari-goers seek, such as elephants, zebras, and wildebeests. But it’s also home to considerably less common species, such as tree-climbing lions and tree-climbing pythons. (Yes, you read that right.) Fortunately, most trees in this park aren't very tall and they tend to be spread out. Better still, few of them overhang the jeep trails.
At just under 365,000 square miles, Tanzania is about twice the size of France. (For you Freedom Fry Francophobes out there, that’s roughly two Californias or half an Alaska.) But get this: More than 30% of Tanzania has been designated either national park land or conservation area. For the United States to protect the same percentage of territory, it would have to set aside the equivalent of Alaska, Texas, California, Montana, and much of New Mexico – basically our five biggest states. That represents a remarkable commitment on the part of Tanzania’s people. No doubt the tourist dollars these parks attract make it a little easier to maintain such a commitment. (In case you’re wondering, the U.S. currently protects about 14% of its land.)
Our destination today is Tarangire National Park (pronounced TEHR-ung-GEE-reh, with a hard G). At 1,100 square miles, it’s only the 6th largest park in Tanzania, yet it’s still a little bigger than Rhode Island if you subtract out Narragansett Bay. The park is known for all the usual animals safari-goers seek, such as elephants, zebras, and wildebeests. But it’s also home to considerably less common species, such as tree-climbing lions and tree-climbing pythons. (Yes, you read that right.) Fortunately, most trees in this park aren't very tall and they tend to be spread out. Better still, few of them overhang the jeep trails.
Our group of 13 is divided among three safari vehicles. We arrive at Tarangire like any other road-weary sightseers, by which I mean we break immediately for the bathrooms, then reconvene at picnic tables to retrieve the box lunches we brought along. So far, this is just like a park visit anywhere in the United States. Soon enough, though, things get African.
Instead of pesky ants and squirrels, picnickers here must guard against monkeys – lots of monkeys. Bold monkeys. Skilled monkeys. Some of them adopt and hold adorable poses until we reach for our cameras, then make sudden flanking maneuvers on our food. At one point, I half-joking stand up in front of a rapidly advancing monkey and address him like he's one of my overstimulated middle-schoolers. “Duuude!” I say firmly, pointing an index finger at him. “Back off!” The monkey stops three feet away but doesn’t retreat. Instead, he alarms me by standing up on two legs as if measuring our relative heights. He looks me up and down, then drops back on all fours and steals away, leaving me to wonder what I’d have done if he hadn’t backed down. People are looking at me with wide eyes and open mouths, so I return to my seat and finish eating, leaning protectively over my lunch.
“Oooooh, look!” somebody says. “Elephants!” Everyone in the picnic area rises as one and looks around excitedly – also a bit nervously. Technically, the picnic area is outside park boundaries, but there are no fences here, and elephants can’t read the signs. There’s a palpable electricity in the air. We want to see elephants; that’s for sure. But we were expecting to be inside vehicles or on top of viewing platforms when it happened. Now, half-crouched as if ready to run, we’re hurriedly scanning the picnic ground for creatures the size of cement mixers. I have never felt so small and so vulnerable. And it hasn’t even occurred to me yet that lions live here, too.
When I finally locate the elephants I’m relieved to discover that they’re a good distance off – so far, in fact, I can barely see them between the trees. Unexpectedly, they blend in pretty well with the sky. Who’d have guessed that the world’s largest land mammals could be camouflaged? This is an unsettling discovery, and it makes me feel as if an elephant might be sidling up to me right now, unnoticed, about to resolve into view. I can’t resist the urge to look over both shoulders, just in case, and I notice other visitors doing likewise.
Jonas, one of our three drivers, rushes up waving our admission papers and announces that it’s time to enter the park. The chase is on. We jump into the Land Cruisers, eager as rookie firefighters, only to be rebuffed by our drivers, who must first instruct us on how to raise and lower the roof panels. Then we roll into the park, standing up in our vehicles, feeling like the stars of Daktari.
For some reason, the park with no fences has a gate, and driving through it is like passing through a TV screen into an episode of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. Just on the other side, zebras, antelope, and wildebeests graze contentedly together as if Edward Hicks’ Peaceable Kingdom has come to life. They ignore us so completely as to seem animatronic, even when we stop right next to them for pictures.
Instead of pesky ants and squirrels, picnickers here must guard against monkeys – lots of monkeys. Bold monkeys. Skilled monkeys. Some of them adopt and hold adorable poses until we reach for our cameras, then make sudden flanking maneuvers on our food. At one point, I half-joking stand up in front of a rapidly advancing monkey and address him like he's one of my overstimulated middle-schoolers. “Duuude!” I say firmly, pointing an index finger at him. “Back off!” The monkey stops three feet away but doesn’t retreat. Instead, he alarms me by standing up on two legs as if measuring our relative heights. He looks me up and down, then drops back on all fours and steals away, leaving me to wonder what I’d have done if he hadn’t backed down. People are looking at me with wide eyes and open mouths, so I return to my seat and finish eating, leaning protectively over my lunch.
“Oooooh, look!” somebody says. “Elephants!” Everyone in the picnic area rises as one and looks around excitedly – also a bit nervously. Technically, the picnic area is outside park boundaries, but there are no fences here, and elephants can’t read the signs. There’s a palpable electricity in the air. We want to see elephants; that’s for sure. But we were expecting to be inside vehicles or on top of viewing platforms when it happened. Now, half-crouched as if ready to run, we’re hurriedly scanning the picnic ground for creatures the size of cement mixers. I have never felt so small and so vulnerable. And it hasn’t even occurred to me yet that lions live here, too.
When I finally locate the elephants I’m relieved to discover that they’re a good distance off – so far, in fact, I can barely see them between the trees. Unexpectedly, they blend in pretty well with the sky. Who’d have guessed that the world’s largest land mammals could be camouflaged? This is an unsettling discovery, and it makes me feel as if an elephant might be sidling up to me right now, unnoticed, about to resolve into view. I can’t resist the urge to look over both shoulders, just in case, and I notice other visitors doing likewise.
Jonas, one of our three drivers, rushes up waving our admission papers and announces that it’s time to enter the park. The chase is on. We jump into the Land Cruisers, eager as rookie firefighters, only to be rebuffed by our drivers, who must first instruct us on how to raise and lower the roof panels. Then we roll into the park, standing up in our vehicles, feeling like the stars of Daktari.
For some reason, the park with no fences has a gate, and driving through it is like passing through a TV screen into an episode of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. Just on the other side, zebras, antelope, and wildebeests graze contentedly together as if Edward Hicks’ Peaceable Kingdom has come to life. They ignore us so completely as to seem animatronic, even when we stop right next to them for pictures.
This park is fiercely dry. Its grass, dormant nearly year-round, is as brittle as straw and offers scant shade to the dusty baked earth below. The only thing drawing animals to this hellish spot is the Tarangire River, which never completely dries up despite the sun’s best efforts to evaporate it.
We prowl around the park on deeply rutted jeep roads, bouncing and nodding uncontrollably like bobble-head dolls. Standing in the open hatch is a great way to see wildlife at close range with minimal risk, but doing so while moving is like taking a Pilates class during an earthquake. I’ve got one leg wrapped around a seat post and I still have to hold onto something else with at least one arm in order to avoid falling into my fellow passengers. On top of that everyone’s juggling cameras, binoculars, and water bottles. After the first ten minutes or so, we stop apologizing to each other and accept the fact that personal space is no longer something we can honor. In the two or three hours we spend in the park, we accumulate an impressive collection of bruises on our shins, upper arms, and ribs – some from the vehicle; many from our neighbors.
We prowl around the park on deeply rutted jeep roads, bouncing and nodding uncontrollably like bobble-head dolls. Standing in the open hatch is a great way to see wildlife at close range with minimal risk, but doing so while moving is like taking a Pilates class during an earthquake. I’ve got one leg wrapped around a seat post and I still have to hold onto something else with at least one arm in order to avoid falling into my fellow passengers. On top of that everyone’s juggling cameras, binoculars, and water bottles. After the first ten minutes or so, we stop apologizing to each other and accept the fact that personal space is no longer something we can honor. In the two or three hours we spend in the park, we accumulate an impressive collection of bruises on our shins, upper arms, and ribs – some from the vehicle; many from our neighbors.
We’re adding even more bruises by defending ourselves against tsetse flies. These nasty buggers not only deliver painful bites, they transmit African sleeping sickness. We’ve been diligently guarding against them since Deirdre's first sighting at lunch. They've gotten a lot worse since then. Being bloodsuckers, tsetse flies are drawn to the park’s main attraction, the animals; we therefore encounter flies most frequently at the very moments we’re trying to hold still to take pictures. Whenever one of us sees a fly, we reflexively swat it before considering its location, which is often the back of someone else’s neck. This makes for some pretty hilarious outcries, the most amusing of which is an indignant “Owwww!” followed by a timid and grateful, “Oh. Thanks.”
Wildebeests (a.k.a. gnus) are by far the most populous mammals in the park. You can’t swing a warthog here without hitting one. They're so thick we often have to shoo them off the road with engine noise. Wherever you find wildebeests, you will also find zebras. Skittish prey animals, the two species hang together for protection like college freshmen. They are the minnows, the bait fish, of the African plains – numerous precisely because nature has deemed them expendable. Without them, in abundance, the local predators would go hungry.
Wildebeests (a.k.a. gnus) are by far the most populous mammals in the park. You can’t swing a warthog here without hitting one. They're so thick we often have to shoo them off the road with engine noise. Wherever you find wildebeests, you will also find zebras. Skittish prey animals, the two species hang together for protection like college freshmen. They are the minnows, the bait fish, of the African plains – numerous precisely because nature has deemed them expendable. Without them, in abundance, the local predators would go hungry.
For me, the stars of Tarangire are the elephants. I’ve never seen a wild one before, wandering around of its own accord, and I can’t stop staring. They’re HUGE, and they have intentions of their own. They're not being washed and fed by zookeepers, and they’re not following a script like their captive cousins in movies and on TV. They’re calling their own shots, and they seem completely on top of their game.
In real life, I soon discover, a wild elephant isn’t a thing; it’s an event – one guaranteed to transfix your attention. Even from the relative safety of a pop-top Land Cruiser, standing near an elephant is like having your garage come to life and start snuffling around your feet in search of food. It’s kind of terrifying and kind of wondrous at the same time.
At one point, two large tuskers emerge from nearby foliage and start padding purposely toward the broad side of our Land Cruiser. I can’t help but notice that the bigger one in front appears to have only one working eye, and so I wonder aloud to Jonas, our driver, if we should perhaps, just maybe, ease our vehicle out of their path. Jonas says nothing, but he glues his gaze on the elephants and lets his right hand drift slowly toward the shift lever. For a long moment, no one breathes. Then, finally, the lead elephant starts veering to our left. The change is nearly imperceptible at first. Turning something that big is like redirecting an aircraft carrier. It happens in increments. Soon we can see that the leader is truly on a new flight path, one that will take him and his co-pilot to the far side of one of our sister vehicles. Collision averted. Breathing resumed.
In real life, I soon discover, a wild elephant isn’t a thing; it’s an event – one guaranteed to transfix your attention. Even from the relative safety of a pop-top Land Cruiser, standing near an elephant is like having your garage come to life and start snuffling around your feet in search of food. It’s kind of terrifying and kind of wondrous at the same time.
At one point, two large tuskers emerge from nearby foliage and start padding purposely toward the broad side of our Land Cruiser. I can’t help but notice that the bigger one in front appears to have only one working eye, and so I wonder aloud to Jonas, our driver, if we should perhaps, just maybe, ease our vehicle out of their path. Jonas says nothing, but he glues his gaze on the elephants and lets his right hand drift slowly toward the shift lever. For a long moment, no one breathes. Then, finally, the lead elephant starts veering to our left. The change is nearly imperceptible at first. Turning something that big is like redirecting an aircraft carrier. It happens in increments. Soon we can see that the leader is truly on a new flight path, one that will take him and his co-pilot to the far side of one of our sister vehicles. Collision averted. Breathing resumed.
(Click images to enlarge them.)
It pains me to report that the elephants I’m observing today may very well be among the last generations their species. That’s no exaggeration. Elephants are being killed at alarming and ever-increasing rates for their ivory tusks. They are the victims of a potent combination of new wealth in Asia and old poverty in Africa. In China, especially, the nouveau riche signal their status by conspicuously consuming rare and exotic treasures, such as figurines made of ivory. Many buyers have no idea where ivory comes from, and even those who do often mistakenly believe that elephants are not harmed when their tusks are taken. The Chinese word for ivory literally means "elephant teeth," which helps unscrupulous ivory dealers mislead ignorant buyers into believing that elephants lose their tusks like baby teeth and then grow replacements.
Asian governments are trying to educate citizens on this matter, but ivory traders have plenty of money with which to undermine those efforts. And it’s not exactly difficult to convince Chinese citizens that their government is lying to them.
For their part, African governments are generally too weak and disorganized to stop poachers. It’s not for lack of trying, but funds simply aren’t available to hire the number of full-time, fully-armed rangers needed to protect roaming animals spread out over half a continent. Instead, many African leaders settle for dramatic publicity stunts, such as burning confiscated ivory, to show support for elephant conservation. But such displays are as counterproductive as they are ironic. Decreasing the ivory supply without also suppressing demand is guaranteed to spike the price of new ivory. Ten years ago ivory sold for about $200 per pound. Today's price is closer to $2000 per pound, and a single mature bull can carry in excess of 60 pounds of the stuff. Underprivileged Africans who might otherwise never dream of slaying an elephant must surely be tempted by the prospect of such a windfall.
The year 2014 marked an ominous tipping point in elephant-human relations. For the first time in history, humans began killing more elephants each year than are being born. And it gets worse. On the poaching end of the ivory trade are terrorist organizations such as Al-Shabaab, Boko Haram, and Joseph Kony's Lord's Resistance Army. But I’ll let director Kathryn Bigelow tell that part of the story.
Warning: Even though much of it is animated, Bigelow's short film, Last Days, is graphic and hard to watch.
Asian governments are trying to educate citizens on this matter, but ivory traders have plenty of money with which to undermine those efforts. And it’s not exactly difficult to convince Chinese citizens that their government is lying to them.
For their part, African governments are generally too weak and disorganized to stop poachers. It’s not for lack of trying, but funds simply aren’t available to hire the number of full-time, fully-armed rangers needed to protect roaming animals spread out over half a continent. Instead, many African leaders settle for dramatic publicity stunts, such as burning confiscated ivory, to show support for elephant conservation. But such displays are as counterproductive as they are ironic. Decreasing the ivory supply without also suppressing demand is guaranteed to spike the price of new ivory. Ten years ago ivory sold for about $200 per pound. Today's price is closer to $2000 per pound, and a single mature bull can carry in excess of 60 pounds of the stuff. Underprivileged Africans who might otherwise never dream of slaying an elephant must surely be tempted by the prospect of such a windfall.
The year 2014 marked an ominous tipping point in elephant-human relations. For the first time in history, humans began killing more elephants each year than are being born. And it gets worse. On the poaching end of the ivory trade are terrorist organizations such as Al-Shabaab, Boko Haram, and Joseph Kony's Lord's Resistance Army. But I’ll let director Kathryn Bigelow tell that part of the story.
Warning: Even though much of it is animated, Bigelow's short film, Last Days, is graphic and hard to watch.
Since killing elephants is illegal under most (but not all) circumstances, reliable numbers on poaching are hard to come by. Conservative estimates hover around 35,000 animals per year, but most experts put the number closer to 50,000. When I first heard those figures I was surprised that there were that many elephants in Africa to begin with. Seems like we should be tripping over them. In fact, however, a study recently published by the National Academy of Sciences asserts that 100,000 elephants were poached between 2010 and 2012. When you consider that only about 400,000 elephants remain in Africa today, it’s hard to be optimistic. Without an immense and global effort, wild elephants will be gone in less than a decade.
Although killing elephants is illegal in most East African nations, the animals are protected only within the boundaries of parks and conservation areas. Regrettably, it is the custom of wild elephants to migrate hundreds of miles per year. In the process, they spend something like 80% of their time outside the parks, out in the danger zone.
Not long before leaving for Africa I came across a mind-blowing article about elephant hunting in GQ Magazine, of all places. Its author, Wells Tower, accompanied a wealthy Texan to Botswana while she hunted – and legally shot – a wild elephant. No fan of hunting, Tower was unable to empathize with the hunters; yet he managed to provide an even-handed, clear-eyed – and magnificently well-written – account of a legal elephant hunt, along with a fair portrait of a few people who do that kind of thing. If you read nothing else about elephants in your entire life, read Tower's piece, Who Wants to Shoot an Elephant?
In the piece, Tower enumerates several gut-wrenching facts that, taken together, suggest regulated elephant hunting may actually be the lesser of two evils. To wit:
As Thomas Huxley once famously implored, "God give me the strength to face a fact though it slay me."
As if that's not troubling enough, in what has to be the most counter-intuitive revelation in conservation history, Tower points out that Botswana’s elephant population mushroomed in the 1960s after the government began permitting regulated hunting. The same thing then happened in Tanzania and Zimbabwe. Kenya, by contrast, banned hunting in 1973 and lost elephants by…well… by the trunkload.
Facts like these make me want to slit my wrists with Occam’s razor.
In my mind, the only way to kill an elephant is to be a species-ist – that is, to value one’s own species over all others. This stance – understandably common among humans – not only makes it possible to kill elephants out of indifference or even malice; it also makes it possible to justify killing them in the name of some lofty higher principle, such as conservation or stewardship. In other words, species-ism gives humans the authority to decide what’s best for elephants as a group, even when the outcome of that decision is not in the best interest of the individual elephant currently lined up in the crosshairs. I, too, struggle against species-ist tendencies. After all, when you think you know what’s best for everyone, as I do, it’s no great leap to also assume you know what’s best for the entire ecosystem.
But then I came to Taranagire, and here I've discovered that if there is an antidote for species-ism, it is watching a family of wild elephants huddle together beneath an acacia tree, charitably sharing a small patch of its shade.
Although killing elephants is illegal in most East African nations, the animals are protected only within the boundaries of parks and conservation areas. Regrettably, it is the custom of wild elephants to migrate hundreds of miles per year. In the process, they spend something like 80% of their time outside the parks, out in the danger zone.
Not long before leaving for Africa I came across a mind-blowing article about elephant hunting in GQ Magazine, of all places. Its author, Wells Tower, accompanied a wealthy Texan to Botswana while she hunted – and legally shot – a wild elephant. No fan of hunting, Tower was unable to empathize with the hunters; yet he managed to provide an even-handed, clear-eyed – and magnificently well-written – account of a legal elephant hunt, along with a fair portrait of a few people who do that kind of thing. If you read nothing else about elephants in your entire life, read Tower's piece, Who Wants to Shoot an Elephant?
In the piece, Tower enumerates several gut-wrenching facts that, taken together, suggest regulated elephant hunting may actually be the lesser of two evils. To wit:
- Once in their 50s, elephants lose their last set of teeth and slowly starve to death. Hunters covet the oldest trophy bulls with the heaviest ivory, thereby killing them mercifully near the end of their natural lives.
- Hunters and outfitters pay hefty permit fees that support conservation efforts such as maintaining elephant habitat and hiring park rangers to protect the animals from poachers.
- Hunters and outfitters have a vested interest in protecting the animals and their habitat. They also have an interest in not over-hunting animals in their respective regions, lest they go out of business.
- Hunters and outfitters hate poachers as much as anybody, and they can actually do something about it because they’re well-armed and on-site.
- The corpses of poached animals are left to rot, whereas legally hunted animals are cleaned, butchered, and distributed to the local population.
As Thomas Huxley once famously implored, "God give me the strength to face a fact though it slay me."
As if that's not troubling enough, in what has to be the most counter-intuitive revelation in conservation history, Tower points out that Botswana’s elephant population mushroomed in the 1960s after the government began permitting regulated hunting. The same thing then happened in Tanzania and Zimbabwe. Kenya, by contrast, banned hunting in 1973 and lost elephants by…well… by the trunkload.
Facts like these make me want to slit my wrists with Occam’s razor.
In my mind, the only way to kill an elephant is to be a species-ist – that is, to value one’s own species over all others. This stance – understandably common among humans – not only makes it possible to kill elephants out of indifference or even malice; it also makes it possible to justify killing them in the name of some lofty higher principle, such as conservation or stewardship. In other words, species-ism gives humans the authority to decide what’s best for elephants as a group, even when the outcome of that decision is not in the best interest of the individual elephant currently lined up in the crosshairs. I, too, struggle against species-ist tendencies. After all, when you think you know what’s best for everyone, as I do, it’s no great leap to also assume you know what’s best for the entire ecosystem.
But then I came to Taranagire, and here I've discovered that if there is an antidote for species-ism, it is watching a family of wild elephants huddle together beneath an acacia tree, charitably sharing a small patch of its shade.
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All my pictures from July, 7, 2014 are available online.
All my pictures from July, 7, 2014 are available online.