The less-traveled path leading to the Serengeti

 The less-traveled path leading to the Serengeti

Numerous safari vehicles are congested on the major route leading to the Serengeti. However, there is a lesser-known detour that passes via volcanic craters, old fossils, and Maasai herders.

Choosing the less-traveled path isn't always simple. You must first have a road, or at the very least a track. Then, the weather must be in your favor. Thirdly, the final destination must justify the journey.

Rumbling over the rutted trails that battled north from the settlement of Mto wa Mbu in northern Tanzania, some scarcely visible under baking-hot dust, reminded me of this. I followed the route north towards Lake Natron and the Serengeti, keeping a watchful eye on the horizon in case rain clouds materialized and converted these footprints into sloppy mud. It would have to be one of the three.

In actuality, however, it wasn't all that horrible. Yes, the route was rough, but it eventually leveled out under a sharply blue sky. The grasslands where Maasai herders traversed the area with their livestock, clad in blood-red shukas (thin blankets), were elevated above the Great Rift Escarpment. Whenever I stopped at the side of the road and switched off the motor, the surroundings became quiet.

I had to make a decision at Mto wa Mbu. With a population of under 15,000, the town was fascinating since it included all 120 ethnic groupings in Tanzania. However, the name of the town—which translates to "River of Mosquitoes"—argued against remaining for too long. I could have followed the unbroken trail of safari cars heading west on the paved B144 road, which passes some of the best wildlife spots in East Africa, such the tree-climbing lions of Lake Manyara National Park and the roaming rhinos and lions of Ngorongoro Crater, which are like their own lost planet. The Serengeti, a big and picturesque region where millions of zebra and wildebeest roam, was also accessible via that route.

I could also choose the detour. Naturally, I chose the detour.

Every now and again a safari 4x4 kicked up dust. However, the majority of the automobiles were farm vehicles packed with locals who were using public transportation to go about. The Crater Highlands were home to several ancient volcanoes, each surrounded by a distinct cloud cover, rising from rolling, tall hills. I had to focus on getting my bearings for a bit before I saw Ol Doinyo Lengai, the Mountain of God, in the midst of all this magnificence. And once I saw it, I found it difficult to look away.

Ol Doinyo Lengai assumed perfect shape on the last approach to Lake Natron, as if drawn from a child's drawing of what a volcano ought to look like. Ol Doinyo Lengai's slopes ascended sharply to create a near-perfect cone, riven with the textured lines of lava flows from prior eruptions (the most recent large-scale eruption occurred in 2017, the seventh in 100 years).

Ol Doinyo Lengai was instantly and completely charming, although Lake Natron, a nearby neighbor, first drew more attention than it did beauty. This huge expanse of salt, water, and algae stretched far toward the north, all the way to Kenya, under a burning sun. A sea populated with far-off pink flamingos was surrounded by the cauterized beach, which was composed of salt covered with black lava from previous eruptions. Later on, as Natron's blue-green algae became red, I would see firsthand how the elemental colors changed in relation to the Sun's angle.

There are extremes in Lake Natron. The water's extreme heat (60C/140F) and extreme alkalinity (pH approaching 12) make swimming quite unlikely. And Lake Natron's basin is like an anvil in a furnace at the height of summer.

It seems amazing that life exists here at all. The Maasai people struggle to make ends meet with their livestock. The seas are pinkened by the flamingos. Furthermore, about 400 fossilized human footprints may be found along the lake's southern coast (only some of which are visible). These traces, which date back 120,000 years, are the oldest ever made by Homo sapiens worldwide and they provide evidence of a prolonged and continuous human presence in this hostile environment.

It was hard to know where to gaze at sunset. The last of the wonderful light of the day fell over Ol Doinyo Lengai, and Lake Natron wore its immensity with austere beauty. The day became less painful when the lakeside town of Engaresero was hidden by the tall walls of the Great Rift Escarpment. Locals came out of the cover and shade to enjoy the relative coolness of the evening. Couples and groups of young ladies laughed as they walked hand in hand down the road. The young males congregated around communal TVs and campfires.

This is a hard place to live. Everything is very severe. But every evening when the sun sets, there isn't a more breathtaking location on the planet.

"Here, things may become very difficult. "Everything is so extreme," said Naserian Leboo, a Maasai lady from the area whose family has been here for an uncountable number of centuries. "But every night, when the sun goes down, there is no more beautiful place on Earth."

The next morning, I headed up the road that began at Engaresero's northern end and wound its way through rocky, desolate territory, offering ever-changing vistas as I ascended the wall of the Escarpment. Maasai shepherds and their goats scrounged in the deep, steep valleys for what must have been the scantiest of harvests. At the summit, Lake Natron gleamed in the midmorning light, like reflected glass.

These rock faces served as a border between two radically different worlds. The scalding Lake Natron badlands below. That lush upland ahead. I took one more, fleeting glance at the lake from above before turning away from Natron and traveling west, toward the Serengeti.

The route wound its way through a verdant terrain for about 150 km, providing a contrast to the scorched and desolate areas around Lake Natron. The route that passed through a panorama of lovely green hills and streams was flanked by Maasai communities. At Olduvai Gorge, an archeological marvel known as the "Cradle of Humankind" because of the fossilized remains that are among the earliest traces of human development, signposts led along enticing expedition tracks that passed through the gaunt Gol Mountains. The euphorbia trees, like candelabras, watched over the perimeter of the settlement and the walled fields throughout. The new, paved road stretched blissfully for fifty kilometers, from Sonjo to Wasso.

The mostly Maasai community of Ololosokwan, northwest of Loliondo and two days' journey from the regional center of Arusha, slid down the hillside on the edge of the Serengeti, its rocky main street lined with lean-to shelters and brightly painted concrete dwellings. I pulled into Maasai Honey under the watchful eyes of old Maasai men.

This neighborhood initiative, which was started in 2011, is a heartwarming success story with strong roots in the Maasai history of beekeeping in the area.

Francis Kirando Letema, one of the beekeepers, told me that "we used to go out into the forest with our cattle when I was a child." "We searched for the hives every time. On occasion, the bird known as the honeyguide would show us the way to the hives so we could consume the honey there. It was very delightful."

Maasai Honey's natural goods, which include lip balms, candles, insect repellents, and honey, are now available for purchase in Tanzanian marketplaces and are supplied to several safari lodges around the nation. What started out as an initiative to generate cash and empower the whole community has evolved to question gender norms in the nearby communities.

Another beekeeper, Maria Shinini, informed me that "beekeeping was always done by men in the past." However, the custom was vanishing and the antiquated methods of operation were being used. These days, we maintain bees in contemporary hives, and 80–90% of the beekeepers are female. Eight ladies and eight hives were all we had at first. We now have 40 ladies caring after 220 beehives."

With my luggage brimming with honey jars, I swiftly made my way westward, driving down the Ololosokwan hill, across the creek, and speeding through acacia woodlands. There was a family of giraffes shortly after a couple of cautious zebras nibbling by the side of the road; the Serengeti was not far away. As expected, a glimpse of the northern grasslands of the park appeared in the distance to the southwest.

And then, Klein's Gate, maybe the quietest entrance to the Serengeti; on the lengthy drive here from Lake Natron, I had passed just two other safari vehicles. This was a crossing point between two worlds as well, and the idea of seeing what was on the other side, over the Serengeti savannahs, was tantalizing.

But although I was happy that the journey had finally come to a conclusion, I also felt a twinge of regret.