SH*T HAPPENS: Exploring the wonders of Mahale while losing a battle with stomach flu

Mahale is a magical place. I would go back in a heartbeat, but sometimes when you travel, let’s face it - shit happens. And oh boy, did it happen for us in Mahale. 

We arrived by bush plane from the Northern Serengeti. A quick pitstop for more passengers in Katavi allowed us to stretch our legs. The flight provides amazing views of the lush green jungles sprawling across the Mahale mountain range. Strong turbulence combined with the stagnant cabin air makes me a bit queasy. We pass a final peak and see the dirt landing strip come into view. Our pilot made a sharp descent to quickly drop altitude and make best use of the 1,174 meter long runway, which comes to an abrupt end with Lake Tanganyika.   

Shortly after landing we are loaded onto a wooden dhow that takes us along the lake shore to Greystoke Mahale Lodge. The entire lodge crew is standing on the beach waving and cheering the boat’s arrival.  

Our home away from home is a two-story, thatched roof banda made from the dhows used to transport the equipment needed to build the lodge. It's just mere steps away from the warm sandy shoreline. The water looks so inviting - especially with the hot sun beaming down, but at least in the fall of 2022 it was off limits for swimming due to the local hippos and crocodiles.

Dinner gave us time to meet the rest of the guests who would join us in the morning to meet what we all came to see: the chimpanzees. The plan is to have breakfast, then go back aboard the dhow. This will take us on a short ride to access the jungle trail that leads to where the chimps were last spotted. Our guide starts describing each of the chimp’s different personalities - including one who loves to play pranks on the rangers - like the one time he tied a new recruit up to a tree. One of the guests insists he has to be kidding, when the guide’s face falls from jovial to serious.

He clearly wasn’t joking. What exactly are we getting ourselves into? 

Belly full and my chest fluttering with anticipation over what tomorrow will bring, we say our goodbyes, walk back along the beach to our cozy room and call it a night.

I snap awake at midnight to the pangs of sharp, agonizing pain emanating from my stomach. Wide-eyed and unsure of which way this is going to go, I blindly stumble down the raised wood plank walkway that separates our sleeping quarters from the bathroom. It’s a good 25 yard scuffle in the dark as I’m desperately trying to deduce what is about to happen with my ill-fated game of Russian Roulette. My mind doesn’t have time to realize that, with no walls, there could be a variety of nocturnal creatures waiting to greet me as I fumble past. 

I turn the corner and catch the first glimpse of porcelain. Another side splitting pang. The roller coaster that has taken over my stomach drops, then suddenly ascends toward my throat. 

The decision has been made for me. I know what’s next. 

I violently retch for what feels like eternity until eventually all my body can do is spasm with no results. Groggy and weakened, I make it back to bed and hope the worst is done. Two returns before the alarm goes off proves otherwise. 

I make it for breakfast - or at least to sit at the table. Food at this point is out of the

question. I am able to keep down some medication, and am praying it can all be put behind me - literally.

After consulting with the guides, we go ahead and see if I can manage the planned hike. It’s common for tourists to get a bout of stomach illness at some point on their trip. Different food, different gut bacteria, and today, clearly different tolerances.

I join the team and we head off. The boat ride is calm and the breeze is heavenly; I actually feel like I am on the rebound. We disembark and enter the forest single file, keeping eyes up in the trees in search of chimpanzee signs. The sun continues higher overhead. The muggy air is starting to tighten around my neck. Oh where is that breeze from the boat? 

My camera is affixed with a telescopic lens, which feels more like hauling a kettlebell the deeper into the forest we go. Sweat drips from my brow down the side of my cheek and is now clinging to my chin. I wipe it clear with the back of my damp sleeve. The humidity makes each breath feel as though I’m inhaling through a moist sponge. My clothes are completely soaked through, clinging to my overheated body. 

I scan around me. The rest of the team looks hot, but not nearly as miserable. 

Soon, the familiar pangs rear up and I double over. I quickly shed my gear and shove it into my husband’s arms, muttering I’ll be back as I tear off from the trail to find some privacy. I find a spot far enough away and begin frantically digging a hole with the pathetic excuse for a stick I manage to find. I’m finally making headway when my stomach again roller coasters down, but unlike last time, there is no ascension. Things are about to go from bad to worse, but I am nearly done with the task at hand. I hear a loud crack, look up, and see it’s my husband dashing toward me. 

“What are you doing here? I could have been…,” my sentence is cut off as my husband rushes past me, leans over the freshly dug hole, and begins to projectile vomit.

I’m still in searing pain, only now with nowhere to go.

“But that was my hole!” is all I can say, defeated by the predicament we find ourselves in. 

He can’t hear me, and it wouldn’t matter if he did. There is nothing controllable about the foul demon befalling us both as it attempts to excise from our bodies. 

Both of us regain our senses and some control of ourselves and rejoin the team. We tell the guides the two of us should turn back, but at that very moment he points up toward the trees. The chimpanzees are above - pulling at fresh leaves and climbing from branch to branch. A mother and child make their way down the large trunk and begin walking toward us. 

They move past just inches from where we stand. The mother moves with a purpose, bounding from her back legs to her curled fists. Her child comes bounding through shortly after trying to catch up. The two come to a stop to groom about four yards behind us. 

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It takes all my strength to stay in this truly once in a lifetime moment. I manage to snap a few photos, then slowly walk further away from the chimps. I make it around the corner before I feel like I’m going to lose it again. At this point, one of the guides escorts us away from the group and back to the boat. I am thankful we still tried, and so grateful we had at least a short session in the company of the chimpanzees. 

We return to the camp, both now taking medicine, and spend the next 24 hours escorting each other back to the bathroom for the next bout. We’re both exhausted and don’t want to end up passing out in such a vulnerable position. The chefs send plates of rice and toast in efforts to get simple, easily digestible calories into us. The camp team even insisted we speak to a local physician via satellite phone to cover all the bases. We’re told to eat what we can, hydrate, and wait it out. 

Shit happens. It’s no one's fault; getting a stomach bug while traveling is extremely common, and it was just our turn. Honestly we could not have found a more beautiful view while being laid up in agony. 

After the initial 24 hours, we are able to go on a boat ride on the lake where we were at a safe enough distance to jump in. The cold water feels amazing. Later that evening we joined the rest of the group for another boat ride in search of hippos and local birds. Even if we saw nothing, the rejuvenating breeze was worth it alone. 

We both felt much better by the time we packed and were ready to catch the plane for our next stop: Ruaha National Park.

Mahale is still a magical place. I look forward to one day returning to see the sights we missed - but am forever grateful for the wonderful staff who took care of us and the time we did spend there; even if it was mostly within running distance of the bathroom.