Tree Skink (Trachylepis planifrons) on a buffalo skull at the entrance to the park

I’m opening my cycle of African travel stories with an account of a trip to the magnificent Nyerere National Park, located just 230 km from Dar es Salaam, where I’m based. The trip came about rather spontaneously. I simply needed to decide what to do over the New Year holidays.

At first, I gathered information from colleagues: where they go, what they see, how the guides behave, what the lodging and prices are like, and so on. The feedback was not exactly encouraging. A typical tourist safari isn’t ideal for a photographer. One tour I came across had game drives starting at 11 a.m. — obviously not the best time to see much.

Puzzled, I began searching for alternatives and decided to try my luck with a company that had previously arranged expeditions for me. I called, explained the situation, and to my delight, everything turned out easy to arrange. Nyerere interested me most as a starting point, and I insisted they assign me their best guide for seven days. I had a specific goal: to find and photograph African wild dogs.

Nyerere National Park is enormous — over 30,000 km², comparable to a small European country. Once it was part of the vast Selous Game Reserve, later divided in two. Now, the Rufiji River separates the areas: Nyerere National Park on one side, and the Selous Reserve on the other. Rufiji is Tanzania’s largest river; the Julius Nyerere Hydroelectric Dam is located within the park and influences its ecosystem, though most of the area remains pristine.

This is one of Africa’s oldest protected areas — and among the few where chances of encountering the endangered painted dogs (African wild dogs) remain high.

These animals are extraordinary — even their mottled coats are unlike any other species. Despite the name, they’re not related to hyenas; their closest relatives are Asian dholes (red wolves). Like other canids, the pack is a family led by a dominant breeding pair. Conflicts are usually resolved without bloodshed, and pack members are notably gentle with one another. They even care for injured or sick individuals — though if a subordinate female gives birth, the alpha female will kill her pups.

Recent studies show that wild dogs decide to hunt by democratic vote: one initiates with a special sound, others respond, and the dominant pair’s “votes” carry more weight — but it’s still a form of democracy. Their vocal range is impressive, from twittering birdlike calls to soft chirps — sounds I’d never expect from predators.

Despite their social harmony, they are efficient and ruthless hunters: about 65% of their hunts succeed, and they begin eating their prey before it’s dead. The species is ancient — having diverged from other canids roughly three million years ago — yet today, populations are declining across Africa. Nyerere remains one of their last strongholds, home to over a thousand individuals.

So, off I went to find these extraordinary creatures, despite warnings about the difficulties of traveling and photographing during the rainy season. My guide, Patrick, picked me up in a massive safari-modified 4x4, and after four hours of bouncing along rough roads, we arrived. The first evening drive gave me only a brief glimpse of the park’s abundance of life.

However, we quickly discovered the car had problems. After leaving the park around six, I settled into my lodge while Patrick waited for a replacement vehicle. Guides on safari often live either in nearby villages or their own small camps, where they can repair vehicles or restock supplies. Tires are the most common casualty — easily patched — but even sturdy 4x4s aren’t immune to breakdowns. Tanzanian potholes are a test for any machine.

When booking, I made one request: a clean bed and hot shower. The guide mattered more than the accommodation. I ended up in a typical African mud hut with a palm-leaf roof. My luxuries included a fan, a couple of power sockets (I travel with an extension cord), and a boiler that the staff kept switching off, so I had to turn it back on and wait for the water to heat up.

My companions were geckos and young giant millipedes — later joined by enormous crickets and one truly gigantic millipede, about 25 cm long, that crawled out of the shower. I named him Arsenio. Arsenio was a polite neighbor, gliding silently along the walls and “vacuuming” crumbs at night before curling up in a lacquered coil behind the spare bed. I photographed him next to a size-45 men’s sandal for scale. My own size 37 foot barely fit in those!

The crickets, however, were another story. They kept slipping under the mosquito net and leaping around like maniacs, scratching me with their claws and getting tangled in my hair. The first time I saw one, I’d already removed my contact lenses and mistook it for a mouse — until it spread its wings and buzzed like a drone. The final straw came when one crawled across my sunburned arm. War was declared. Still, it was livable — after all, I was born in similar rustic conditions.

Outside, wildlife was abundant. That first evening, a troop of blue monkeys (Sykes’ monkeys) appeared, and a mongoose darted by. In the sand, I found tracks of a genet, small antelopes, and baboons. Birds were everywhere. At three in the morning, I discovered I was sharing my roof with a family of galagos (bush babies). They nested in the thick thatching and announced their presence with shrill cries — all night long.

It promised to be a fascinating week — if only not for the heavy clouds swelling over the Rufiji.

Morning greeted us with rain, but by the park’s opening we were already at the Mtemere Gate, getting our entry permits. I had yet to see the dry-season abundance of Africa’s savannahs, but I was ready to argue that the rainy season was just as magical: lush greenery in every hue, fresh and fragrant after showers. Birdlife was staggering — a birdwatcher’s dream. Large mammals were trickier to find, but not absent.

Predators, especially cats, vanish easily in dense vegetation. Herbivores, enjoying plentiful food, form smaller groups and no longer depend on waterholes. Yet they looked spectacular — especially impalas and giraffes, their russet coats glowing against the green. Horned males were stunning when the rain washed dust from their horns, making them gleam like polished ebony.

Male impala

Common waterbuck females (subspecies Kobus ellipsirymnus ellipsirymnus)

African buffalo, adult bull

That day, many routes were inaccessible due to flooding. The main road was washed out, and side tracks were impassable. We couldn’t reach the wild dogs — but there was plenty else to see. Frogs thronged the flooded plains, shrieking and leaping. Fish washed out of ponds now flopped helplessly in puddles, attracting herons and storks of every kind.

Openbill stork (Anastomus lamelligerus)

Woolly-necked stork (Ciconia episcopus)

Hamerkop (Scopus umbretta)

Green-backed heron (Butorides striata)

At midday we stopped by a hippo pool clearly dug by machinery — the steep banks still bore the marks of excavator buckets. The hippos didn’t mind; they’d made themselves at home. One gentle slope led toward the road, allowing tourists at the picnic tables a safe vantage point. On dead branches along the shore, a colony of village weavers had built nests.

The hippos mostly slept, resting their heads on each other’s backs. Occasionally one yawned or grunted, and once a young hippo drove off a neighbor that had encroached on his living cushion. Hippos dislike rain, the patter of drops irritates their skin, so when showers start, they gallop into the water to hide. In fair weather, though, they can wander kilometers inland, which increases the odds of meeting this very unfriendly animal and getting your butt handed to you.

The second half of the day overflowed with birds. Nyerere in the rainy season is paradise for ornithologists, full of resident and migratory species, thriving in its mosaic of habitats. I was amazed at the variety of bee-eaters and kingfishers, often perched just meters apart, peacefully coexisting with plenty of food for all.

Every guide’s vehicle holds a battered bird field guide — essential, because no one can memorize that much avian diversity.

Jackson’s hornbill (Tockus deckeni)

White-browed coucal (Centropus superciliosus)

Red-necked falcon (Falco chicquera)

Black-bellied bustard (Lissotis melanogaster)

Lilac-breasted roller (Coracias caudatus)

White-fronted bee-eater (Merops bullockoides)

White-throated bee-eater (Merops albicollis)

Grey-headed kingfisher (Halcyon leucocephala)

Northern carmine bee-eater (Merops nubicus)

By the roadside we spotted an African fish eagle struggling with its catch. Perched about two meters above the water on a dead branch, it kept slipping — the branch was slick from rain, and the fish too. Each time it lost its grip, it flapped back up, wrestling both gravity and its meal. It looked almost comical, and the mishap gave me extra time for photography. The next day, the same spot was completely submerged under a rushing brown flood.

We ventured deeper into the park, but even elevated tracks were flooded. The main road turned to mush, sometimes into a stream. Predators dislike such footing — especially wild dogs, who hate mud clinging to their paw pads. Birds, reptiles, and large herbivores, however, seemed unbothered.

Despite the overcast weather — and despite constantly spraying myself with repellent — I managed to get sunburned and bitten by insects. The rain and sweat simply washed everything off. Where herbivores graze, bloodsuckers abound, and a hot metal vehicle is their favorite target.

I share this as a warning: in the following days, salvation came from two scarves I bought at a roadside souvenir stall. I wrapped myself Bedouin-style, along with a small wearable neck fumigator. I looked ridiculous but stopped burning and bleeding. Tourists in shorts and spaghetti-strap tops stared at me, but my skin was worth more than their judgment. Who goes half-naked into the bush anyway?

Since then, I always bring a scarf and a Maasai fabric (kanga) on safari. Cotton, breathable, voluminous — it lets air circulate while keeping insects off. The folds and space between fabric and skin make it impossible for flies to bite.

By evening, we had to rush back. The gates officially close at 6 p.m. — a 30-minute delay might be forgiven, but an hour earns a fine. After hours, only those with night drives or lodges inside the park may stay. Since then, I always book lodges within park boundaries to capture the evening light.

On the way back, luck smiled on us: we encountered three male greater kudus. To me, the greater kudu is among the most beautiful African antelopes — elegant silhouettes, pastel coats, and those magnificent spiraling horns. Females are common in mixed herds, but males are solitary and shy, preferring dense thickets and twilight hours.

Why they’re so timid, I don’t know. They are a trophy species, though hunting has long been banned in the park. Perhaps it’s instinct. Either way, the rains that scared off tourists worked in my favor. Meeting three males together was a rare gift.

They stood alert but calm, bathed in the soft evening glow, allowing us to photograph them at leisure. It was a magical, almost sacred moment — so beautiful that we nearly stayed too long and risked a fine.

Minutes before gate closing, word came of a lioness that had killed a giraffe near the entrance. We hurried there, got permission from rangers to check, and found the carcass, but the lioness, harassed by tourists, had already abandoned it and led her two cubs away.

We decided to return early the next morning, before crowds arrived. Lions may be a cliché safari subject, but as a complement to the wild dogs, they’d make a fine addition — and besides, I just love cats.

TO BE CONTINUED...