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- Henry David Thoreau


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Adventure Travel

Aug 18, 2017

Searching for Wild Chimpanzees Part 1: Languishing on the Liemba

A journey to find some of Africa's last remaining wild chimpanzees starts (somewhat un-fittingly) with a ride on the world's oldest passenger/cargo steamer—a WWI warship that's been trudging along since 1913.

WRITTEN BY

Sarah Kingdom

Click Here to Read Part 2: Marvellous Mahale 

Waiting in Mpulungu, we seemed to be the only people in Zambia who knew the Liemba was coming…

The Liemba is a passenger and cargo ferry that runs along the eastern shores of Lake Tanganyika, stopping along the way to pick up and drop off passengers, between the ports of Mpulungu in Zambia and Kigoma in Tanzania.

Built in Germany in 1913, the Liemba (initially called the Goetzen) was taken apart, packed into 5000 boxes and shipped to Dar es Salaam (at that time part of German East Africa). From Dar es Salaam the boxes were taken by train to Kigoma, where she was finally rebuilt and launched onto the lake in February 1915.

During the First World War the Liemba was converted into a German gunboat, and was one of the three ships the Germans used to control Lake Tanganyika during the early part of the war. The Goetzen initially gave the Germans complete supremacy on Lake Tanganyika. She ferried cargo and personnel across the lake, and provided a base from which to launch surprise attacks on Allied troops. In July 2016 during the German retreat from Kigoma, her captain had her scuttled in order to avoid the ship falling into Allied hands.

Luckily, the engineers in charge of scuttling the ship loaded it with sand and covered the engines with a thick layer of grease before carefully sinking her, this meant she would be well preserved despite ultimately spending over a decade under water. There was an initial, and not entirely successful attempt to salvage the Liemba/Gotzen by the Belgians in 1918. In 1924, a British Royal Navy salvage team eventually raised her and finding the layers of grease had preserved the engines they decided to rehabilitate it. In 1927 she returned to service as the Liemba. Today the Liemba is the last vessel of the German Imperial Navy still actively sailing anywhere in the world.

The Liemba has had a colourful past. From cargo and passengers, to naval gun ship and back. She was the inspiration for the CS Forrester’s novel ‘The African Queen’ and the subsequent movie starring Katharine Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart. In 1997 the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees used the Liemba to help repatriate more than 75,000 refugees who had fled Zaire during the First Congo War. In May 2015 she was used again by the United Nations, this time to evacuate 50,000 refugees fleeing from the troubles in Burundi. The Liemba has now settled down to a more sedate, if rather unreliable, ferry service.

Ferry operations ostensibly run twice a month between Kigoma and Mpulungu, though we found ourselves waiting in Mpulungu for a ferry that everyone said wasn’t coming. Despite having it on good authority that the Liemba was on its way (we knew a guy working onboard), the port authorities in Mpulungu were adamant it would not be arriving that day, the next day, or in fact any day in the foreseeable future! We waited patiently, and finally it appeared on the horizon, forcing the staff at the port to concede we perhaps were right after all.

Accommodation on the Liemba ranges from a handful of first class cabins, to seating for up to 600 third class passengers. We managed to secure ourselves one of the first class rooms, though remove all images of the QE2 from your mind when picturing our ‘state room’! We had a bunk bed that took up half the room, a small sink in one corner, one plastic garden chair and thankfully, a working fan. As third class is situated below decks in the sweltering bowels of the boat, the bulk of the passengers seem to sleep on deck, arranged in an array of yoga-like of positions, on all available surfaces. One family had come well prepared with a large double bed mattress that they ensconced themselves on for their journey. It was not uncommon to find someone had gone to sleep in our doorway blocking the only way out of our cabin.

There are docks at Kigoma, Mpulungu and Kipili but at all other stops passengers and goods have to travel between ship and shore on small local boats. This provided hours of entertainment for us passengers, watching with amusement, as joining or departing passengers had to scrabble from one bouncing boat to another, sometimes in the middle of the night. Watching from the upper decks I saw ‘generously proportioned’ ladies in their ‘Sunday best’ and toting large handbags, being hoisted unceremoniously aboard, babies were passed like packages from one set of arms to another; all the while the oarsmen on the smaller boats struggled to keep things relatively stable, and countless instructions and advice were shouted from all directions.

We had left Mpulungu basically empty, doubtless because no one in Zambia, aside from us, knew the Liemba was coming and no one had time to prepare any cargo or get ready to travel themselves. With each stop along the way passengers boarded and the empty hold gradually filled up with bags of grain and an endless variety of other cargo, the ships crane working overtime. Having started in Zambia with a few boxes of apples and oranges and apparently very little else in the way of cargo, by day two the deck was full of chickens and ducks, clucking and quacking, numerous motorbikes and bicycles and an extensive and aromatic collection of dried fish heading to market.  We woke one morning to discover two large containers full of live tropical fish had somehow been hoisted aboard and were now ensconced like giant aquariums, complete with filters, on the foredeck.

Travelling at a ‘stately speed’ of 11 knots/20km an hour… half way through day three we passed our destination, the remote and inaccessible Mahale Mountains National Park, and thirty minutes later it was our turn to clamber down the side of the Liemba and into one of the flotilla of wooden boats who were waiting below to ferry passengers to Lagosa. Six boatmen wielding homemade wooden oars paddled us to shore, while we balanced our luggage precariously on our laps and a guy with a bucket worked even harder than the oarsmen, bailing out the bottom of the leaky vessel.

Reaching shore, with a quick haggle over the cost of our ‘water taxi ride’, we were back on dry land and ready to start the next leg of our journey to Mahale and some of the last remaining wild chimpanzees in Africa

The Outdoor Voyage: Go Trekking with Rwanda’s Gorillas. 

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Focus

Oct 01, 2018

The Forbidden Zone: Mongols, to Your Horses

The rolling green hills, rocky passes, flower-laden meadows and clear streams of Gorkhi Terelj National Park in northern Mongolia is the birthplace of the Mongols. The Outdoor Journal spent a week on horseback with Stone Horse Expeditions in the heart of this country’s vast wilderness.

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WRITTEN BY

Apoorva Prasad

Tdrihe Khan Khentii mountains stretched before us, from one end of the azure sky to the other. Tegri, the Great Sky God, watched us with his infinite panorama. From here, I could see miles and miles into the distance. This was the “Forbidden Zone”, that unknown wilderness where Genghis Khan was born. As a child and then again much later on, he hunted here, his true home, on a horse, sheltered in a ger or under the blue sky. When he was a boy, exiled with his family into the cold and harsh wilderness of the northern Mongolian hills, his only friends were what these lands contained. After he built an empire and died, it became a sacred and taboo zone, left to the deer and wolves. For decades the area had been closed off. The Soviets enforced it as a Highly Restricted Area to allow them to do what they wished with it – from logging and military exercises, to also countering any potential rise of Mongolian nationalism around the great Khan. Despite those years, the Area remained wild.

No wonder the Mongols worshipped it.

A day before, we had crossed fresh bear tracks. There were no signs of human presence apart from our train of horses and riders. And now, this vista lay in front of us, green and yellow grassy hills, long valleys, meadows of flowers stretching to higher mountains all the way to Siberia, some still snow-dusted despite the summer sun. Burkhan Khaldun stood further behind higher peaks. And that incredible sky. No wonder the Mongols worshipped it. We all lived once under this blue infinity. As we’d ridden northwards away from Ulan Bator, the city’s pollution had faded away long ago, the gray curse had lifted and my eyes had once again accustomed themselves to what they had evolved to do – see long distances, look for hares, deer, bears, navigate passes and ford streams, climb rocks, and watch falcons circle on thermals above. And over the last few days, we had done all these things.

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The weary horseriders arrive in the ger to refresh themselves.

We had left our last camp around mid-morning, some hours ago. One half of the party broke away to ride into another valley out west, while Keith and I wanted to ride up and to the pass in the range of hills that separated the Gorkhi Terelj from the Khan Khentii. We skirted the granite mounds which punctuated the ends of this valley, forded a marshy grassland below the campsite, fought off the bloodsucking horseflies that made our horses’ lives miserable for a little while, eventually entering a tall forest of larch and birch. The ground began to rise as we entered a narrow rocky trail that started to wind uphill. Jerry, my sturdy, stubborn little Mongolian horse plodded on. This easy gait was infinitely more comfortable than the long trots of our previous days in the saddle. Keith Swenson, a taciturn, the 64 year-old owner of Stone Horse Expeditions along with his wife Sabine Schmidt, showed none of the wear I felt – my skin of my thighs were quite literally raw after 50 kilometers of riding and trotting in the wilderness. After a few days Keith opened up with wisecracks. “People ask what do you do, and I say I’m a rider”, says Keith, punning on his American accent. “They think I mean ‘writer’, “and they ask, what have you written?” “So I say, Blackie, Brownie, Ol Dirty Face…”, naming his horses.

These lands, however remote, are important.

Halfway up the trail was a shaman’s totem, poles placed on the ground to make a conical structure, wrapped with bits of fabric and ribbons. But at the base, and near a tree, we also found broken shards of glass, vodka bottles drunk and thrown by unknown travelers who no longer respected their old ways. We’d been riding for an hour or so and we stopped for a short break in the little opening in the forest. It was quite warm in the strong sun, perhaps 30C like every day of the summer, but cold at nights, often dipping below freezing.

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These Mongolian horses play a huge role in making a trip across the steppe easy and fun for riders. Each horse has a unique personality. Big Dirty Face pictured here loves coffee and will drink it straight from your cup if you let him.

The Mongols invented the modern world*

The old ways are important. These lands, however remote, are important. The Mongols invented the modern world*. When, at the age of 55, Genghis Khan rode out into Asia and Europe, he created the largest empire known to humanity, as well as its first international postal system, and the largest free-flowing network of ideas, trade and culture. But today, Mongolia feels relatively isolated and far away, landlocked in the Eurasian continent. And getting there turned out to be a greater adventure than we’d expected. Instead of flying, we took the famous Trans-Mongolian from Beijing to Ulan Bator. At 11pm, the train pulled into the last station on the China-Mongolia border to change the undercarriage (the railway gauge is different in Mongolia). Three hours later we got back on the train and waited patiently for the Chinese guards to hand us all our passports back. Our intern’s passport was returned ripped from its cover. Before anyone could make a move, the train entered Mongolia… where the Mongolian border guard insisted that the 18-year old girl get off the train because she wasn’t allowed to enter on an invalid passport. Twenty minutes of arguing later, at nearly three am, we got off and watched the train leave without us.

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Mongolian cuisine is typically meat and dairy products. Vegans beware.

Fifteen hours later, after many phone calls and emails to various embassies and important officials, she was finally allowed to enter the country. The Trans-Mongolian having long gone, we finagled an eight-hour taxi ride across the great steppes (on a second-hand car coming off a goods train) for $45. Welcome to Mongolia.

REAL MEN TROT

I did not have much riding experience, but I usually don’t let a little thing like that deter me from a trip. Keith, once also a climber, agreed that anyone up for adventure would be perfectly fine on a Mongolian horse. They were sturdy and forgiving. We all gathered at their staging camp an hour’s drive from Ulan Bator – a Singaporean couple on their second trip with Stone Horse, their friend from Hong Kong, a French diplomat from Swaziland, our team of three, Keith, Sabine and their crew – Nyamaa, Buyana and Jackson, the American intern. Soon, our team of 16 horses and Stinky the Mongolian Dog, a most genuine companion if there ever was one, were off towards the north. Day one went reasonably well, with a short four hour ride to our first campsite inside the Gorkhi Terelj National Park. The other experienced riders asked me various questions about how I felt and whether my horse had cantered or galloped, and I said I didn’t know, but the horse seemed to know what it was doing. Apparently, they have many gaits.

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Nomads Yadmaa and Tavaasurn inside their summer ger, just outside Gorkhi Terelj.

I learned what that meant the next day.

The morning begins easily and we move along a gentle valley. At a stream, the horses bend to drink. They’re herd animals, comfortable only in their own numbers. Suddenly, there’s a commotion as one of the pack horses spooks and bolts. We’re unprepared, and good old Jerry decides to follow the bolting horse too, suddenly turning 180 degrees and galloping wildly. I have to pull firmly on the reins to stop him, while the teamsters have to get the other fella back. He’s bucking around wildly, his unshod feet stamping, his grass-eating brain telling him that that bee sting he felt on his hind was a wolf’s nip. Stinky ignores the commotion, running ahead happily back in his favorite hunting grounds, chasing ground squirrels to their holes. We continue, entering a forest and then riding uphill to a pass. On the other side, a wide open valley, and our first real gallop. Now I feel the sensation, riding with the animal as one, gently cycling my feet in the stirrups and gripping with my knees, all of it coming naturally to me and I urge Jerry on, on, on. Chhoo, Jerry, Chhoo! We stop at a babbling brook in the valley below where we wash our faces. Are we in paradise?

And then the long trot begins. For a horse, it’s the most comfortable way to move. But it’s bouncy. I try to “post” like all the real riders. Watching me grimace in agony, Keith smiled and said, “real men trot,” as he rode along comfortably with that rolling ankle movement to compensate for the horse’s bumpy ride. “Trotting is how the Mongols moved such vast distances. If you make him gallop, you won’t get very far, you’ll kill the horse”.

a melting pot of humanity and ethnicities

But Mongolia changed the course of human history since long before the great Khan and his riders, the ultimate, self-sufficient soldiers. Apart from the Mongols, it is also the original homeland of the Huns and the Turks. It is a melting pot of humanity and ethnicities, where thousands of years ago two language families met and separated – the Indo-Europeans and the Altaics – and possibly where the wild horse was first tamed, thereby changing the course of history. When men on horses first raced out of Central Asia, first ancient Mesopotamia, then Egypt fell. Europe’s original ‘mother culture’ and India’s Harappan civilization disappeared. Humans, moving incredible distances on horses, spread across Asia, from the western end of Europe to Korea, all the way down to Arabia and India, creating nearly all the cultures we know today. Some of the languages they spoke evolved today into English, and others evolved into Japanese, but some of their words have become so intermingled that it’s hard to distinguish which came from which. Hindi is an Indo-European language, but today the common Hindi word for “home” is “ghar” (from the Sanskrit “grhá”) which is nearly identical to the Altaic Mongolian’s word for home, ger.

When the Hunnu (“Huns”) fought the Chinese Hans, the clans that lost fled towards Europe, creating Hungary, as well as leading to the downfall of the Western Roman Empire. Centuries later, the Turkics originally from the Mongolian steppes came hurtling into Constantinople, wiping out the Eastern Roman Empire.

We ride through rocky hills and rock formations, up and down defiles, over passes and across shallow streams, through meadows of flowers and knee-high grass. We ride all day, and every evening set up our traveling camp like the Mongols of old. We sleep in modern-day lightweight tents, under trees or under the stars, breathing cold clear air, drinking from fresh rain-fed streams, eating atop rocks while falcons circle above and the horses graze.

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The Stone Horse team from left to right – Jackson, Keith, Buyana, Nyamaa and Sabine.

The world has continued to change, but horses and men will forever ride together.

One day we stretched out the ride to reach a farther campsite, a Hunnu gravesite. We set up our tents atop 2000-year old graves, low mounds of stones marking the places where men, women, children and horses were laid to rest. “I believe that these people would have loved us to be here, living like they did,” said Keith. When they hear our horses, they’ll feel alive”. The next morning, I pulled my horse off to a side and to a vantage point to shoot the group riding further down the valley. Jerry stomped and neighed angrily as the herd passed him by, but I held him back. When the group disappeared into the distance, I quickly packed my camera gear back into the saddlebags. Then jumping back on, I let the horse fly as he wished, back to his herd. Jerry, the funny but tough little horse, galloped madly a mile north over the gently rising slope. Our hooves rang out in the valley, as two large round mounds, Hun graves, emerged in front on the mountainside. Neither Jerry nor I needed to veer, and we galloped directly over the centre of the mounds, the sound of our hoofbeats gladdening passed Hunnu souls. Their ancestors, our ancestors, had once tamed wild horses, and together changed the world. The world has continued to change, but horses and men will forever ride together.

Images by Madhuri chowdhury.

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