Off the Beaten Path: Adventure Travel in Sarh and Southern Chad

The old sports journalism adage that 'the toughest matches make the best stories' applies perfectly to reaching Sarh. After flying into N'Djamena, Chad's capital, you're faced with two options: a bone-rattling 10-hour drive southeast or a heart-stopping flight on a small aircraft that seems held together by little more than optimism and duct tape.

I chose the latter, clutching my travel journal as we bounced through air currents over the Sahel transition zone. The landscape below gradually morphed from semi-arid plains to the greener savanna woodlands that characterize southern Chad. This visual transformation alone was worth the white-knuckle flight.

Sarh itself, formerly known as Fort Archambault during colonial times, sits on the western bank of the Chari River. Once Chad's second-largest city, it retains an administrative importance that belies its current more modest status. The infrastructure reflects this contradiction—government buildings with peeling paint stand alongside vibrant markets and surprisingly decent accommodations.

My base became the Hotel du Chari, a mid-range establishment with intermittent electricity but consistent hospitality. The manager, Ibrahima, greeted me with the same warmth I've encountered from cricket groundskeepers from Colombo to Christchurch—that universal pride in showing visitors one's home turf.

While Sarh serves as an excellent base, the crown jewel of Southern Chad's adventure offerings lies three hours southwest: Zakouma National Park. Unlike its more famous East African counterparts, Zakouma remains delightfully uncrowded, with visitor numbers in the hundreds rather than hundreds of thousands annually.

The journey there requires a 4x4 vehicle with serious clearance. My binoculars rarely left my neck during the drive, as the transition zone teemed with wildlife even before reaching the park boundaries. Marcel had arranged for Idriss, a former anti-poaching ranger turned guide, to drive us in his weathered but reliable Land Cruiser.

'This park is our cricket pitch,' Idriss remarked when I explained my sporting background, 'and the animals are our star players.'

Zakouma's conservation story reads like a sporting comeback narrative. Nearly decimated by poaching in the early 2000s, the elephant population has rebounded from fewer than 500 to over 550 today—still fragile but trending in the right direction under African Parks' management since 2010.

We spent three days camping within the park, each dawn game drive revealing new wonders: enormous herds of buffalo (sometimes 1,000 strong), Kordofan giraffes with their distinctive pattern, and roan antelope moving through golden grass. The birdlife proved equally spectacular, with black crowned cranes and marabou storks congregating around seasonal ponds.

What struck me most was the absence of other vehicles. During our entire stay, we encountered just two other tourist groups—a stark contrast to the traffic jams I've experienced in Tanzania's Serengeti or New Zealand's Milford Sound. This solitude creates a profound connection with the landscape that increasingly eludes travelers in more popular destinations.

The primary purpose of my journey—documenting traditional fishing practices—began in earnest upon returning to Sarh. The Chari River doesn't just provide water; it represents the cultural and economic lifeblood of numerous ethnic groups including the Sara, the predominant people of southern Chad.

My background covering cricket in Sri Lanka, where coastal fishing communities maintain centuries-old techniques alongside modern methods, provided unexpected context for what I witnessed along the Chari. Marcel's research team had established relationships with several fishing villages, allowing us extraordinary access to both their techniques and traditions.

In the village of Koumogo, about 25km from Sarh, I observed the collective fishing practice called gura. This involves dozens of community members creating a human chain across narrow river channels, driving fish with specialized woven traps. The coordination reminded me of a well-executed rugby scrum—precise positioning and timing determining success.

My waterproof camera proved invaluable for documenting these river-based activities. After gaining permission from village elders, I joined several fishing expeditions, wading thigh-deep through waters that—I was repeatedly assured—contained 'only small crocodiles.'

Each evening concluded with communal meals where our contributions of rice, tea, and sugar complemented locally caught fish prepared with groundnut sauce. These dinners became forums for cultural exchange, with elders sharing stories of how fishing patterns have changed with shifting climate conditions and younger villagers asking about life in New Zealand and my experiences covering international sports.

What struck me most was how fishing here transcends mere subsistence—it represents cultural identity, social structure, and community resilience. Conservation efforts must acknowledge this deeper significance rather than imposing external values.

Adventure travel in Chad demands both physical resilience and cultural intelligence. The country's complex history—including ongoing tensions in northern and eastern regions—makes security awareness essential. While Sarh and southern Chad generally remain stable, conditions can change rapidly.

Before departure, I registered with both the New Zealand embassy in Egypt (which handles consular matters for Chad) and the U.S. embassy in N'Djamena, given my American citizenship. My satellite communicator provided peace of mind during remote excursions, allowing text communication and emergency services even when cellular networks disappeared.

Language presents another significant challenge. While French serves as Chad's official language alongside Arabic, in southern regions like Sarh, local languages predominate. My rudimentary French proved adequate for urban interactions, but in villages, Marcel's team included local translators—essential for meaningful cultural exchange.

Health considerations cannot be overlooked. I visited a travel clinic in Wellington two months before departure to update vaccinations including yellow fever (required for entry), meningitis, and typhoid. Malaria prophylaxis and a robust medical kit accompanied me throughout the journey.

Perhaps most challenging were the ethical dimensions of visiting communities with limited resources. My journalistic instinct to document everything encountered resistance from my growing awareness of privacy and dignity concerns. I established a personal protocol: always seek permission before photographing individuals, share resulting images when possible, and consider how my presence impacts local dynamics.

The infrastructure limitations—sporadic electricity, minimal internet connectivity, and basic plumbing—quickly recalibrated my expectations. Yet these challenges fostered deeper connections with both place and people. When your smartphone becomes useless, you engage more authentically with your surroundings—a lesson I've encountered repeatedly from New Zealand's remote hiking trails to Chad's riverside villages.

My career transition from sports journalism to cultural travel writing has increasingly focused on environmental contexts, and Southern Chad presents a fascinating case study in conservation challenges. The region sits at a critical crossroads—both geographically between the Sahel and Congo Basin and metaphorically between preservation and development imperatives.

During our expedition, Marcel arranged meetings with conservation officials, including Mahamat Abdelkerim, Zakouma's head ranger. Over bush tea beside a seasonal waterhole, Abdelkerim explained how climate change has altered migration patterns and human-wildlife conflict dynamics.

'The old playbooks no longer work,' he told me, unknowingly echoing what I've heard from cricket coaches facing changing pitch conditions. 'We must adapt our conservation strategies as rapidly as the environment is changing.'

This adaptation includes innovative approaches to anti-poaching efforts. Zakouma now employs former poachers as rangers, leveraging their tracking expertise for protection rather than exploitation. The park has also implemented community development initiatives in buffer zones, creating economic alternatives to wildlife trafficking.

Along the Chari River, environmental challenges take different forms. Overfishing threatens sustainability in some areas, while upstream dam projects in Cameroon alter water flows critical to both aquatic ecosystems and human communities. Several villages we visited reported declining fish sizes and changing species composition—ecological warning signals familiar to indigenous communities worldwide.

Yet amid these challenges, I witnessed remarkable resilience. In the village of Maro, community leaders have established no-fishing zones that serve as breeding sanctuaries, demonstrating local conservation knowledge that predates Western environmental science. These protected areas function similarly to marine reserves I've documented in New Zealand's coastal communities—proof that conservation wisdom often emerges from those most directly connected to natural resources.

The lesson here transcends Chad's borders: effective conservation requires balancing scientific approaches with traditional knowledge systems and local economic realities. As someone who has witnessed both spectacular conservation successes and heartbreaking failures across continents, I've come to believe that sustainable solutions emerge only when all stakeholders—particularly local communities—have meaningful voices in the conversation.