By Andrew Tarcia
Eighteenth Annual Solas Awards Silver Winner in the Travel & Sports category
It’s possible to travel just about anywhere these days to catch a fish, but when you venture into the deep bush of southwest Tanzania, you are officially taking your fishing into the danger zone.
Yet, as I cast my fly in the placid Mynera River, the risk seemed distant. The rumble of thunderclouds only served to warn me that tigerfish season in East Africa was ending. The urgency today was trying to catch what many consider the hardest-fighting freshwater fish around.
The day had been a grind, with tigerfish proving elusive, the midday sun frying us alive. Suddenly, the river erupted like a bubbling cauldron. A crocodile’s tail slapped at the surface, awakening another submerged creature from its afternoon nap. Upset and groggy, this semi-aquatic mammal emerged, all four tons of him, and scurried up the muddy bank.
“Hippo!” screamed fishing guide Oliver Santoro. “Rods in the boat! Let’s get out of here!”
The bull male pivoted with the nimbleness of a Tanzanian soccer star and plowed into the river. Grunting a primal warning, he swam after us, like a heat-seeking torpedo. Our premature demise, thankfully, was prevented by the quick-thinking of Santoro and our fast-moving boatman, who hustled to give us a head start.
Their actions did not go unnoticed to us greenhorns on the boat. Along with the fishing aspects of the job, we were relying on our guides to also protect us from unseen dangers lurking below and prowling along the bushy banks. Indeed, it takes a special person to survive and thrive as a professional fishing guide in a place where humans aren’t top predators.
Since pioneering fishing in the area in 2008, the South African-based outfitter African Waters has operated two fish camps and employed a team of guides, who have worked tirelessly to unlock the secrets of this fishery. The remote spot – encompassing roughly 14,000 square miles of savannah and scrubby mountains along the Mynera and Ruhudji Rivers – has emerged as a world-class destination on the fly-fishing map. It’s now known as the place to catch trophy tigerfish.
Turnover amongst guides who have worked a season in Tanzania is high, said Robert Scott, co-founder of African Waters. Throughout the year, he said, there has emerged an equilibrium between the older guides, who have their secret spots and tried-and-true tricks, and the younger guides, who bring fresh ideas, high energy, and new techniques. Regardless of age, everyone must be on high alert.
“The season is immense, the days are extremely long, and the guides literally work themselves to a standstill,” Scott said. “The environment and physical nature of the work literally wastes the guides away. I had a season where I lost 20 percent of my body weight over four months, from pure exhaustion.”
Back on the Mynera, safely off the angry hippo’s radar, Santoro’s PTSD clicked in, and he sat shaking. A few months earlier, during the guide orientation, he stood casting at the bow when another bull attacked the boat. The force of the bump sent him flying backward into the river, where he struggled to get back on his feet.
“I felt the bristles of the hippo’s hairs under my toes,” said Santoro, who lunged into the safety of the boat. “It’s crazy how aggressive they are, especially for an animal that has no predators.” Santoro estimated the whole incident took about 10 terrifying seconds. As for the mark of a true pro, he held onto his fly rod the entire time.
My journey to the Kilombero Valley began with a flight on Coastal Air from the capital Dar Es Salaam. Arriving at Dhala Camp, set on a bluff overlooking the river, we were greeted by head guide Greg Ghaui, a native Tanzanian who is a legend of African angling.
“We call him the real Tiger King,” said his colleague and protégé Blaede Russell, who collected us at the dirt airstrip in Ndolo. “There is nobody with more experience catching tigers on a fly in the entire world.”
There are five species of the toothy alpha-predator known as tigerfish – including Hydrocynus Goliath, which are found in the Central African Republic – and the 34-year-old Ghaui has caught them all on a fly rod. “There’s probably not another person on the planet that can say that,” Russell beamed. “He even caught two Goliaths in one day.” Both were over 100 pounds.
After dropping off our gear, we gathered for our first lunch in the Dhala main tent, where Ghaui gave us an introduction to the fishery, a lay of the land, and outlined the challenges of catching tigers on a fly.
“I don’t want to shock you,” said the mustachioed Ghaui, who wore khaki shorts and desert boots, “but the success rate is about one fish landed for every 10 hooked.” (I’ll be honest: After traveling nearly 10,000 miles from Seattle to reach this place, his was shocking!)
Now in his 11th season guiding here, Ghaui said the key is to forget most of everything you’ve learned about fishing. “No trout strikes,” he said. “Keep the rod down. Keep tension on the line. Don’t worry about getting the fish onto the reel. It’s more like hand-to-hand combat.”
Tanzania is home to over 63 million people, but there’s not a single fly shop to be found, so I wondered how Ghaui got into fly-fishing in the first place. He said his father’s generation stocked trout in the local rivers and fished as part of a “colonial hangover” – that’s how he and a cousin picked it up. Eventually, his cousin started guiding in Russia.
“That was really the first time I thought about guiding,” said Ghaui, who lives on a farm in the western part of the country and spends the offseason growing crops such as maize and sunflowers and tending to his cattle.
Asked what the keys to the job are, Ghaui cited a willingness to work hard; take on a ton of responsibility; and having the capacity to learn. Most importantly, he said, “The guides need to be able to navigate scores of situations that could take a wrong turn,” including encounters with not only hippos and crocs but also ornery lions, elephants, and buffaloes.
The last week of the fishing season is always bittersweet for the guides. They want to move on, but it’s hard to let go. The thought of not being on the river every day is a tough one.
This was especially true for the two South African guides on the team. For 26-year-old Tim Leppan, this was his “final dance,” as he was trading in his push pole for an office desk in Johannesburg. For Santoro, 24, it was a bitter pill to swallow. The two had been inseparable as they led fishing expeditions in South Africa, Sudan, and now the wilds of Tanzania.
“I’m losing my wingman,” said Santoro, who had a deep gash on his left index finger, a result of a tigerfish bite. Said Leppan, “It’s going to be sad saying cheers to Ollie.”
As Leppan and I fished near Samaki Camp, on the Ruhudji River, we worked a series of tigerfish pools made up of fallen trees and riverside bushes (The guides refer to this river as “Guantanamo” because it’s so remote.). We fished methodically that day, casting from different angles, experimenting with varying strip speeds, and mixing up our lines, both floating and sinking. I let the fly sink for four seconds, then five seconds, then six, before stripping. My knees buckled with nervous anticipation.
Despite enduring a few slow days over the course of a week, our group of four American anglers had landed about 80 tigerfish collectively, the biggest of which was an 18-pounder (anything over 10 pounds is considered a trophy). We also netted a 4-foot-long crocodile and a 7-foot catfish called a vundu.
Our final takeout point was just ahead. We had one more bend in the river, but it was home to a dangerous hurdle. “Five hippos live there,” said Leppan. “This is where Ollie fell into the river. They’ll be waiting for us.”
As we approached, the hippos sensed our arrival, and one by one, they went under. Our boat man fired up the motor as we made a run for it. It would be unthinkable if they came up to attack.
Crossing the threshold, we turned around to see the creatures emerge from their mysterious depths, to claim their rightful place as masters of their domain. The tension in the air filled with their bellicose grunts, warning us to go away, and never come back.
As this was the last day of the season in Tanzania, nobody would be back. For the next eight months, the hippos, crocs and tigerfish had the Kilombero Valley to themselves.
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Andrew Tarica has worked as a travel writer and photographer since 1990. His most recent adventures were fly-fishing in Gabon and trekking in Nepal. A native New Yorker, Tarica currently lives in Seattle in the shadow of the Cascade Mountains.