HIPPO HUNT ON MAFIA ISLAND

Hunting pygmy hippos on Mafia Island. The noise from beating the water is meant to wake up hippos, causing them to rise to the surface where we could shoot them (with our cameras, of course).

Yes, there really is a “Mafia Island.”

But before anyone goes alerting the FBI or Interpol, be aware this barely-developed spit of land lies nowhere near Italy (off the east coast of Tanzania, actually) and the only thing resembling mob activity might be the feeding patterns of a roaming herd of what have to be the most elusive hippos on the planet.

Hippo hunt map.

Mafia is a gorgeous, if not rustic, place, even if it disappoints in the mobster and homemade pasta categories. Just a 45-minute flight from the capital Dar es Salam, the island shows up on few people’s must-visit lists, which means limited tourist services but more opportunity to interact with locals. 

We went to get away for a while (traveling is tiring stuff), to dive in the Mafia Island Marine Park, and to attempt to track down the aforementioned gang of hard-to-find hippos. 

After checking off the first two tasks (photos later), we rented a motorcycle and headed to the island's sparsely-settled northern tip for a wildlife safari.

Guides show us the hippo trail. Supposedly.

The word "elusive" is not one typically associated with animals that can weigh up to 9,000 lbs. But Mafia's hippos are special, or so locals say kept telling us. 

Since arrival we had been asking nearly every islander we met where we could find the hippos. 

While people agreed on little when it came to locating the animals (they're far north; they're west in the marshes; they only come out at night; they feed at sunset; they're ghosts) , they all agreed on one thing--the hidden hippos here were small, some even calling them "pygmy." 

After two days and too many hours bushwhacking through forests, wading through muddy marshland, and riding our moto on trails meant for small rodents, we can only assume by pygmy, everyone actually meant invisible.

Two brothers led us across their farmland, through coconut and cashew groves, to where they were certain the hippos lived. No luck.

A 12-yr-old boy made his little brother watch his fruit stand while he guided us to a secret lake he had heard is a prime hippo bathing spot. Nope.

An old man walking his cows gave us spotty directions to a marsh that sounded a lot like a place a guide back near our hostel had mentioned. He even told us to be careful, as rumors were the hippos can be aggressive toward humans. Sounded like an expert. We got excited. Hours later, figuring we must have missed a turn, we called it a day.

Through torrential rain and baking sun, we searched for Mafia Island's (in)famous mob of hippos. Kip wrecked the motorcycle. Twice. Liz blew out a flip flop and nearly died when she almost fell into a creek our "guide" said was full of sleeping hippos that even beating the water with a stick wouldn't wake up.

At the end of the hunt, we hadn't seen a single hippo. Not even a hint of one. 

But despite the damaged moto, busted flip flop, and a little disappointment, it wasn't a total waste. We hung out with lots of friendly islanders. We explored places few tourists would ever go (at least not on purpose). And we survived another adventure that hopefully we'll never have to go on again. 

Unless, of course, we can do it by boat. Then maybe we'll consider it.

Liz and our 12-yr-old guide, who knew where all the hippos lived. They were on vacation the day we were there.

One of the well-maintained trails supposedly frequented by hippos.