A distinctive feature of Tanzania’s national parks is that they are all located relatively far from major cities. The journey to a safari destination can take anywhere from six hours to two days. From the unofficial capital, Dar es Salaam, people most often head to Mikumi National Park — though it’s not exactly close either. Much nearer, just 200 km to the north, lies a small and almost forgotten park: Saadani.

Saadani is unique as the only national park in Tanzania with an ocean coastline. Its role is to protect the fragile ecosystem of mangrove forests and the Wami River estuary.

So why is it so unpopular? For the same reason that drives most tourists elsewhere — the elusive “Big Five.” It’s extremely difficult to spot them here.

The park’s grass grows thick and tall, making it hard to see animals at all. At best, you might glimpse Lichtenstein’s hartebeest, waterbucks, or reedbucks — all shy creatures unaccustomed to safari jeeps. Recently, and for no clear ecological reason, impalas were introduced, though they were never native to this area. Impalas prefer open, dry terrain — quite unlike Saadani’s lush wetlands.

What Saadani lacks in large mammals, it more than compensates with an incredible variety of birdlife. Birdwatchers know it well. The meeting of several habitats — marine, wetland, forest, and grassland — always supports a richer fauna than any single ecosystem. Here, seabirds, waders, and aquatic species coexist with forest and meadow birds. Migrants pass through too; I was surprised to spot an Eurasian roller, a bird familiar from my own homeland.

The only reliable way to see large animals is to set out early in the morning toward the flooded salt meadows. During high tide, ocean water submerges these flats, leaving behind salty open land that herbivores love. On the pale, crusted mud, you can find countless tracks — silent proof of those who carefully avoid tourists.

Salt is essential for herbivores, but their plant diet provides little of it. So they come to these natural “salt licks.” And, of course, predators follow, obtaining salt from their prey’s blood.

I had hoped to photograph life on these meadows, but during my two days in the park, that story remained hidden. Still, there were plenty of other discoveries.

Since it was springtime, a boat trip along the Wami River proved to be an excellent choice. Along the banks, I saw not only water birds hunting but also massive nesting colonies of herons and cormorants. Despite the strong current, my river guides skillfully maneuvered and held the boat steady at every point I needed for my shots.

As we moved upstream, I couldn’t help but think of old adventure films about African explorers — the scenery was exactly the same!

Sadly, such a small park inevitably borders human settlements. Saadani has been a national park only since 2005, though conservation work began back in the 1960s. When its status was upgraded and its area expanded (now just over 1,000 km²), conflicts arose: villagers suddenly found their homes inside protected land.

The disputes haven’t stopped — six villages are still demanding boundary revisions. Meanwhile, nature continues its uneasy coexistence with people.

Warthogs roam village streets like lazy domestic pigs. Wading birds and flamingos feed in nearby saltworks, where the locally famous “Bagamoyo salt” is produced — often flavored with coconut, hibiscus, or lemon.

In roadside ponds overgrown with blue lotuses, baboons gather edible flower stems and tubers. They’re unafraid of people and wade around leisurely. The crocodiles there are small — and apparently scared of the baboons.

Yellow-billed storks and locals alike fish for catfish in those same muddy pools.

What I wanted most was to find mudskippers — those bizarre amphibious fish that “walk” on land. Saadani is, so far, the only place I know where it’s safe to do so. Their habitat was just a 15-minute walk from my lodge.

Even though it was the rainy season, the mangrove soil was dry (since it depends more on tides than rainfall), and I had to venture deep into the mangroves to find them. Crab burrows were everywhere, the sun scorched down, and the deeper I went, the hotter and more stagnant the air became. Mud always stinks — that’s just life!

But when I spotted a tiny stream wriggling with little land-walking fish, I forgot everything else. These mudskippers were small and not brightly colored, but seeing such a unique creature in the wild was thrilling! Crabs added splashes of color and drama to the tranquil scene.

It wasn’t breeding season, so no males were flaring fins, fighting, or leaping into the air — but they were still fascinating. They walk on their fins: the pelvic fins form a kind of support, while the pectoral ones act like legs. They can stay out of water for long periods, keeping their skin moist by rolling in wet mud. Occasionally, they’d crawl to the water’s edge and seem to “drink” — actually replenishing seawater in their jaw cavity to regulate oxygen in their blood. Their amphibious respiration system is remarkable.

They were likely silver-lined mudskippers (Periophthalmus argentilineatus), which can reach up to 20 cm, though the ones I saw were much smaller. Still, they were captivating. They bustled among countless small fiddler crabs, each waving its oversized claw in slow circles until a rival appeared — endlessly entertaining to watch.

At the time, I lacked experience and underestimated the local climate — the blazing, toxic sun and suffocating humidity. Absorbed in filming, I failed to notice how dangerous the heat had become and eventually had to lie down in a nearby dugout canoe to recover.

This is a reminder: in Africa, the sun and heat are not to be taken lightly. Heatstroke or sunstroke can be serious. I’ve learned since then to be cautious, though even now I sometimes misjudge the strength of sunlight (and yes, in Africa, the sun’s brightness alone can make you ill — especially if you have thyroid issues). So, if you visit Africa, take care! Guests often ignore advice — and then regret it.

After about an hour of rest, I handed my heavy camera bag to my guide Matutizo and trudged back to my lodge. The ocean breeze revived me. That evening, I amused myself chasing hermit crabs scurrying between the huts.

My final photographic subject was the nymphaeas (water lilies). It was spring, and they bloomed in every puddle. I asked Tizo where I could photograph them in peace, and he took me to a small pond at dawn. We parked the car to shield me from the tall grass — where lions might hunt — allowing me to shoot low to the ground. Thankfully, there were no crocodiles, and I could safely capture the flowers in the golden morning light.

Tizo admitted right away that, unlike in other parks, guides here rarely work with photographers (there aren’t many tourists at all, let alone photographers). He was eager to learn how to handle such eccentric clients. Our calm, meditative morning focused on flowers was a novelty for him — but he enjoyed it.

We shared a laugh when another vehicle of tourists stopped across the pond, staring in disbelief that we were there just for flowers.

It was a perfect end to my March holidays. Saadani left a lovely impression.

Would I recommend visiting? Yes and no.

If you go expecting the same experience as other parks, you’ll be disappointed. But if you come with an open mind, Saadani — small yet full of quiet marvels — will reward you.

It’s a park that demands a special kind of approach.

I hope to return someday, to capture the wildlife on the salt plains — and maybe, Saadani will once again greet me with its gentle hospitality.