Our goal was to find new, unexplored fishing—not just places no one had ever been, but places no one had ever dreamed about. We had to get off the beaten track. My friend Sven and I grew up in Kenya and have explored most of the fishing Uganda, Tanzania and East Africa have to offer. That’s wild and off the beaten track as far as flyfishing goes, but we wanted to go further.

Across the world from one another, Sven and I sat on Skype brainstorming. We knew the destination had to be in Africa—but where? I had a flash of memory—a couple of dusty colonial flyfishermen. It was in Kenya around a bush campfire. They whispered of Ethiopia and its rivers. I haven’t got the best memory, but when someone mentions fishing, that information is banked...

Water and flyfishing don’t jump to the front of mind when the topic is Ethiopia, but with a few clicks on Google Earth, mountains, lush forests, lakes and rivers come into view. Were there fish? It almost didn’t matter. Our mission was set—flyfish Ethiopia. We booked flights, packed gear and off we went into an unknown country—unknown to us, unknown to almost everyone, really.

Ethiopia shares borders with Eritrea to the north, Djibouti and Somalia to the east, Sudan and South Sudan to the west, and Kenya to the south. With more than 100 million people, it is the most populous landlocked country in the world and the second-most-populous nation in Africa. Ethiopia is also big, occupying an area of 420,000 square miles. Most interesting of all, Ethiopia is the mother country of what we call modern humans. Lucy, the most famous fossil in the world, walked this land some 3.2 million years ago.

Today, Ethiopia is, frankly, a mess. The authoritarian regime of Prime Minister Hailemariam Desalegn has a dismal human-rights record. The press is tightly controlled, people are poor and it’s crowded. Ethiopia’s resources have been pushed to the brink due to the country’s droughts, famine, wars and dictatorships. You see it the lack of mammalian wildlife—the animals have been slaughtered for food. Soil that was once fertile is now so fine and the air so dry, you feel it sucking moisture out of your lips and eyes, as if the air itself is trying to regain some kind of equilibrium. Despite this, I have never experienced a population so proud of its country, so resolute in its loyalty and belief that Ethiopia is the best place in the world.

The journey to western Ethiopia took four days from its capital, Addis Ababa. Driving the hills of the central highlands, we vibrate from side to side of the Land Cruiser on dust-choked roads, holding whatever we can hold to be sure potholes don’t realign our spines. Bushy hillsides, colobus monkeys and lush rain forests full of wild coffee set the course as we make our way toward Gambella, a town of more than 50,000 souls in western Ethiopia, next to the South Sudan border—our final destination.

On the final morning of our journey, we stop for some roadside coffee and bombolinis, a sugary, triangular doughnut. Served by a sweet lady, we sat on plastic chairs facing the morning rush hour—men and women going to work, children on donkeys, and carts taking goods to market while goats, cows and chickens made their way through the chaos. Sipping espresso and smoking Nyalas—the local cigarette—we went over our plans. What flies? Sink tips or floating lines? Were the rivers clean? Crocodile-evasion plan? The list was endless.

We flowed out of the highlands on a long, winding road and finally arrived at the bridge into the Gambella region where we were met with a military checkpoint. Every bridge in Ethiopia has a checkpoint—the government’s attempt to control weapons trafficking into South Sudan. The South Sudanese White Army, one of many militia groups in South Sudan, procure weapons and ammunition from traders in the Gambella region. Driving into South Sudan with a car full of munitions is a handsome payday and, for many, is worth the risk. One of the drivers on this trip risked it shortly after we left. He’s now in an Ethiopian jail.

Water and flyfishing don’t jump to the front of mind when the topic is Ethiopia, but with just a few clicks on Google Earth, sections of mountains, lush forest, lakes and rivers come into view. Were there fish?

An AK-47-wielding officer with a giant smile on his face approached and asked to look through the car. We obliged. He stumbled upon our rod tubes. “What is this?” he asked. In Africa, rod tubes are not a typical sight and are often viewed with suspicion as a rocket-propelled grenade or as containing some kind of weapon. We explained the gear and told the soldier we were in Ethiopia hoping to find some great fishing.

The soldier seemed oddly delighted and marched off to speak to his commander, a stern-looking man dressed in blue with polished shoes and an officer’s hat. He had an AK of his own and seemed paranoid. After a few moments, they both returned and asked, in English, ‘Would you mind catching us some fish?”

Checkpoints in Africa often involve payoff for a fictitious traffic offense you have allegedly committed. We were prepared to deal with this roadside shakedown, so were shocked when we were invited by the Ethiopian military to catch them some lunch.

We whipped out the rods and explained the concept of fly casting to our heavily armed “military fishing students.” A crowd gathered beside our roadside lesson. We opened our fly boxes and explained how feathers and fibers had been tied to a hook in specific colors and patterns to imitate things fish eat.

The river was crystal clear and resembled a big-bouldered trout stream. We started fishing and, soon enough we hooked up. The look on the soldiers’ faces was a combination of shock and delight. Beautiful barbell came to hand, which the ecstatic soldiers took to the riverbank to begin descaling and cleaning. During this AK-47-protected harvest, I had a savage hit, which certainly wasn’t a barbell. We started to think we had found some tigerfish.

Leaving the bridge, the river and the Ethiopian Army, we moved on to Gambella town where we rendezvoused with Sanne, a family friend of Sven’s who is working on a project to create a national park in the area. Millions of white-eared cobb—a type of antelope—move through the region and Sanne wants to see their migratory pathways protected.

Gambella is a very different region of Ethiopia. The Nilotic people there belong to a group of Nilo-Saharan tribes that historically lived along the Nile River system. They are much darker-skinned and much taller compared to the relatively short, light-skinned Ethiopian highlanders. They remind us of the Turkana from Kenya, also a Nilo-Saharan tribe. The environment is hot and suffocating, a cross between swamp and savannah. Everything—insects, mosquitoes, snakes and crocodiles—wants to eat you.

Checkpoints in Africa often involve payoff for a fictitious traffic offense you have allegedly committed. We were prepared to deal with this roadside shakedown, so were shocked when we were invited by the Ethiopian military to catch them some lunch.

Being very close to the Sudanese border and due to ongoing war in South Sudan, Gambella is a refuge for people from hundreds of different tribes fleeing the violence of their homeland. With so much diversity, tribal clashes and violence are common. Driving through town, vehicles from almost every humanitarian aid organization on the planet pass us—Red Cross, United States Agency for International Development, World Food Program, United Nations Development Program. On every street, at every corner, are guns in the hands of soldiers, some of whom look barely 18 years old. I’ve never been in the presence of so many weapons and in a place where I could feel tension boiling in the air, as if a tiny spark could ignite brutal chaos in an instant. Despite this, life goes on. The streets are alive with the hustle and bustle of an African town—chickens are tied up waiting to be sold, goats and cows are herded through dusty streets, loud music and bartering are the rhythms. We carved through the madness and found Sanne’s compound.

Sanne works for an organization called the Horn of Africa Regional Environmental Committee. He’d never considered sport fishing as a sustainable revenue source for the park and, as we relaxed on his porch, surrounded by bug screens and sipping Ethiopian beer, Sven and I explained our plans to find fishing and possibly bring some clients back to check it out. We explained the addictions of fishermen and how far they’ll go to seek out sport in new places.

The following morning, Sanne asked if we could assess and write a report on the sport-fishing potential of the area in relation to creating revenue for the national park to protect the rivers from agriculture and overfishing. In return he would give us the vehicles, resources and boats we’d need to explore. This meant our work could protect the fishery, we’d see more areas and have access to government and military relationships that could come in handy for later exploration.

We were a three-hour drive from anywhere and starting to feel stranded in the bush. This is an empty feeling that sends your brain and stomach down many avenues.

We began identifying rivers of interest and what we’d need to access them. We decided a good place to start would be Upper Baro, the crystal-clear tributary of the Nile we fished at the police check.

On the drive to the river we met Hapte, a man from one of the Omo tribes who quickly became our good friend. One of Sanne’s colleagues, Hapte mentioned we had to pick up some soldiers to escort us up the river because of the possibility of bandits in the area. These armed gangsters roam the wilderness and exploit any profitable opportunity they stumble upon.

We were miles from any town or village, on a crystal-clear river in the hot African sun, surrounded by Africa’s ruggedness, and in absolute peace—minus the four AK-47s, crocodiles and rock pythons. We worked the river hard and had a great day catching tigerfish and barbell. We gave a 20-foot rock python a wide berth, but the bandits and crocodiles left us alone.

Six hours south was another river surrounded by dense forest—this was what we had been looking for. This river, while looking perfect on the map, had its own issues, bandits, very bad ones from the Murle tribe.

The Murle tribe is from South Sudan. Some tribal members comprise a gang of gun-toting cattle rustlers who believe all cows on Earth belong to them and it’s their mission from God to recapture them. Mercilessly, they cross frequently from South Sudan into Ethiopian villages, killing men, raping women and stealing children and cattle.

It wouldn’t be easy to get to the river. Having liaised with the military, we had to wait for the go ahead. For the next few days we explored the area around Gambella while receiving daily security updates.

Sanne arranged for us to meet Oiulu, a local tribal elder working with a youth fishing organization. Oiulu, a tall man with an infectious smile, is Anuak. Rather than herd cattle like most tribes in the region, the Anuak prefer to fish. Oiulu hopped in the Land Cruiser and we drove west toward the South Sudan border to a small riverside settlement. He was very interested in what we were there to do, and we explained the notion that fish are more valuable in the river, rather than dead on the bank. It’s hard to explain the balance between harvesting fish and protecting them through sport fishing but Oiulu got it immediately. “This is a great idea” he said. “I often worry about the fish in the river running out, and now with more and more people coming into Gambella, who knows how long they will last. I worry for my children. If they cannot eat fish from the river, I don’t know what they will do.”

We parked the car and walked through huge trees, shrubs and elephant grass. The morning light caught the dew hanging in the shadows of the leaves and the air was fresh and still cool. Arriving at the village, we walked into a social area encircled by mud huts with thatched roofs. We were greeted by laughing children and women cooking the morning meal. They looked at us, smiling nervously.

The men of the village were waiting for us and we were led into a private meeting area. Wooden stools were surrounded by walls of thatched reeds. It was open air, the trees our ceiling.

The tribal elders did not speak English and Oiulu translated everything into Anuak for us. It was one of the most surreal situations I have experienced in my life—three guys and a translator on one side of the meeting and six Ethiopian tribal elders on the other, all discussing flyfishing. Sanne explained the value of sport fishing with regards to protecting the river, its fish stocks and the possibly of earning some money for the villages. The elders began to nod in agreement. We hadn’t expected it to go so well. Finally we asked if we could get a look at the river. They smiled. Fishermen get along with fishermen, no matter the language.

The majority of the tribe escorted us to the river. Fishing from the bank, we missed hits from tigerfish—a tiger’s mouth is very hard and setting the hook is not easy. When we finally hooked up, the crowd went wild. When the fish came to hand, kids ran to the bank and asked us for it. Given our recent chat with the elders, we had to let it go. When it began swimming away, the crowd screamed and one woman almost fainted, brought to her knees by watching, for the first time, a fish being let go.

We were miles from any town or village, on a crystal-clear river in the hot African sun, surrounded by Africa’s ruggedness, and in absolute peace—minus the four AK-47s, crocodiles and the rock pythons.

Eventually, we were given the green light from the military to head south. We loaded the pickup, attached the boat and trailer, and hit the road. Driving along, daydreaming of the river to come, a trailer wheel came bouncing past the car. We were startled. “That’s not ours, is it?” With no spare, we started searching for the wheel and its lug nuts. Scouring the shrubs, we magically found all its missing parts.

We started to jack up the trailer only to find the jack was too small. We were a three-hour drive from anywhere and starting to feel stranded in the bush. This is an empty feeling, which sends your brain and stomach down many avenues. We tried every trick in the book to get the jack high enough, but nothing would work.

Out of nowhere, the one and only truck that uses the road—the beer delivery truck (beer is cheaper than water in Ethiopia)—rumbled up behind us. They stopped and loaned us their jack and in 10 minutes we were on our way.

We arrived in a town close to the Gilo river and picked up our military escorts, Opodika and Okello. They were armed with AKs, dressed in uniform and each carried a pack with gear for the journey. We drove to a gentle mud slope that extended down to the river, launched and motored upstream for almost 20 miles, the engine bumping into crocodiles as we went.

We had arrived in the nirvana we had set out to find: a quiet, clean river surrounded by lush forest—the only sign of humans were the charred remains of logs and Nile perch skeletons. We eyed a camp on a sandbank—sand deters most snakes and bugs you don’t want to be bitten by—the only issue being that crocodiles were using the sandbank as a sun bed. We decided to drive the boat straight at them, which scared them into the water. After a quick check to ensure no crocodile eggs were in the sand, we set up what would be our home for the next five days.

We fished hard, catching all sorts of incredible species, some of which we had never encountered. We caught electric catfish, which had gray nodules—their conductors—on their sides. A fish locally called “weet” (Gymnarchus niloticus) resembled an eel/fish combination and, of course, tigerfish—the biggest we estimated at 18 pounds.

At night we cooked with our companions, drank beer, talked and laughed. We gazed at stars and fireflies and thought about our next day of exploring. When our escorts cocked their guns at the sign of any other human existence or when we moved past huge 20-foot crocodiles, the idea that every environment has its drawbacks became startlingly obvious. In situations like this, the hairs on the back of my neck begin to tingle and, sitting alert, I feel every whisper of the air moving past me, my heart thumping in my ears.

After five days, we headed back to Gambella and began identifying the fish we’d caught. Sanne had rustled up a document that Russian scientists put together in the 1970s that described each species they’d found in the river when they electro-fished it—more than 300 are listed.

We began writing the report—which pointed to yes in terms of fishing but no in terms of infrastructure and security for tourism—and began to reflect upon the crazy journey we had undertaken. Ethiopia is a complex land of challenges, and even though the possibility of danger lurks around a lot of corners in the Gambella region, it gets under your skin—in a nice way. Everyone needs adventure, and wild stays with you forever.

We had arrived in the nirvana we had set out to find: a quiet, clean river surrounded by lush forest—the only sign of humans were the charred remains of logs and Nile perch skeletons.

The Flyfish Journal Volume 9 Issue 1 Feature The Mother Country

above "The skiffs in Ethiopia are usually constructed from hollowed-out mango trees. Balancing on one of these is not easy, but a fear of crocodiles helps one stay in the boat."

Photo: Jamie Melvin

9.1 Issue Features

The Mother Country

When the Mountaintop Met the Mangroves

Catskill Chill

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