Into the Rainforest of Côte d’Ivoire

November 2019 – Seeking the Wildest Corner

With only five days to spare in Côte d’Ivoire, I wanted to spend my time in the wildest, most ecologically significant corner of the country—Taï National Park. This UNESCO World Heritage Site protects the largest remaining tract of old-growth rainforest in West Africa.

Located in the Upper Guinea Basin along the remote border with Liberia, Taï is part of a vast transboundary rainforest system. It shelters a stunning array of endangered wildlife: chimpanzees, pygmy hippos, forest elephants, and even leopards.

A Forest Under Siege

For centuries, the indigenous people of the region lived in balance with the forest, revering the chimpanzees and leaving them undisturbed. But in the past fifty years, the story has shifted dramatically.

• Cocoa Plantations: Côte d’Ivoire is the world’s top cocoa producer, and the boom has come at a steep ecological cost. Cocoa plantations have driven massive deforestation, cutting into the edges of Taï.

• Indentured Labor: Thousands of migrant workers, many from Burkina Faso, were brought in to toil in the cocoa fields under conditions often described as modern-day slavery.

• Wildlife Under Threat: Unlike the local communities, these new arrivals had no traditional taboos against hunting chimpanzees or other species. As a result, poaching increased, putting enormous pressure on wildlife populations.

My Goal: Finding the Chimpanzees

Despite these threats, Taï remains a place where the forest still breathes with ancient life. My goal was simple yet ambitious: to reach this remote park, camp deep within the jungle, and witness its wildlife—above all, the chimpanzees that have made Taï famous.

The Taï chimpanzees are legendary in primatology. This was one of the first places in the world where scientists observed wild primates using tools—cracking nuts with stones to extract the rich kernels inside. Over years of research, some groups have become habituated to human presence, making it possible to approach them quietly and observe their complex behaviors in the wild.

Location of Taï National Park

Storms and Setbacks

The Worst Rainy Season on Record

Unfortunately, our timing for visiting Taï National Park couldn’t have been worse. Our trip coincided with the end of the rainy season—and this year’s rains had been among the heaviest on record. Torrential downpours had flooded towns, submerged roads, and left vast sections of rainforest impassable.

Before the journey, I had already reached out by email to the park headquarters and arranged a booking to camp inside the forest. On paper, the rainy season should have been over by the time of our visit. But just weeks before departure, a message from the park arrived in my inbox: Taï was closed for months due to flooding.

Determined to Go Anyway

The news was crushing, but I wasn’t ready to give up. My plan was to travel to a nearby village regardless, hire local guides, and—with my own camping equipment—attempt to reach the forest and track chimpanzees on our own. It would be a logistical nightmare, but if it gave us even the slightest chance to experience Taï, I was prepared for the challenge.

A Change of Fortune

Then, just days before leaving Abidjan, another email came from the park headquarters. The rains had finally stopped, the forest had begun to drain, and—knowing how determined we were—they decided to open prematurely just for us.

It felt like we had lucked out in a big way. Taï was back on the table.

The Road to Taï

Of course, our challenges weren’t over. Even with the park open, we still had to contend with the infamously bad roads leading from San Pedro to Taï. Mud, potholes, and washed-out stretches of jungle track awaited us—an adventure in themselves before we could even set foot inside the rainforest.

Day 1: Arrival in Côte d’Ivoire

From Accra to San Pedro

With only five days in Côte d’Ivoire, every hour mattered. My friend and I flew from Accra, Ghana into Abidjan, Côte d’Ivoire’s bustling capital. Without pausing in the city, we quickly transferred onto a small domestic twin turbo-prop plane bound for San Pedro, a coastal town that would serve as our gateway to Taï National Park.

Enotel Beach Hotel and a Surprising Welcome

Upon arrival in San Pedro, we headed straight to the Enotel Beach Hotel, where I had been in touch with the manager for weeks to arrange transport to Taï. She greeted us warmly and, seeing our need to exchange money, personally escorted me to the cheapest place in town to convert cash into local currency.

During our conversation, she casually revealed that she had given birth just the day before. Yet here she was, smiling, professional, and committed to making sure we were taken care of. I was stunned—her appearance showed no trace of fatigue, and the fact that she had come into work less than 24 hours after childbirth left me speechless.

I thanked her repeatedly for her kindness and insisted that her baby was the true priority, assuring her not to worry about us. Her generosity and quiet strength were a moving reminder of the human connections that make travel so memorable.

View from Our Beach Hotel

Fishing Boat

Day 2: The Long Road to Taï

Leaving San Pedro at Sunrise

With the help of the Enotel manager, we secured a 4WD vehicle and driver to take us to Djirotou, the last village on the edge of Taï National Park. The drive was expected to take seven to eight hours, so we set off at sunrise, eager to make the most of the daylight.

From Pavement to Red Dust

The road began smoothly enough, paved along the coast, but as soon as we turned inland near the last town before the Liberian border, the asphalt disappeared. Suddenly, we were bouncing along muddy, deeply rutted dirt tracks.

The route wasn’t straightforward. The “road” branched endlessly, crisscrossing through vast cocoa plantations, and it was often hard to tell which path was the main one. Massive trucks, overloaded with cocoa, lumbered slowly ahead of us, leaving trails of choking red dust.

Thankfully, our vehicle’s air-conditioning worked, and we could roll up the windows to escape the clouds of grit—small mercies on an otherwise grueling ride.

Through the Cocoa Plantations

As we pressed deeper inland, the landscape shifted. Villages grew sparse, and the rainforest thinned dramatically. Just as I had read, much of the region’s primary forest had been cut down to make way for endless rows of cocoa trees. What had once been untouched jungle was now a checkerboard of smallholder farms and industrial plantations.

On the Borderlands

Being so close to Liberia, the area carried an edge of unease. The U.S. State Department had active warnings about the risk of banditry along the border, and while we saw no sign of trouble, the warnings lingered in the back of my mind.

By the time we reached the outskirts of Djirotou, we were dusty, tired, and ready to finally enter the rainforest that had drawn us here.

Where we had to leave our car behind 

When the Road Disappeared

Just when we thought we were within reach of Taï, the journey threw us one last challenge. Only about an hour from the park headquarters, the road became completely impassable.

Ahead of us, a massive cocoa truck had sunk deep into a mud pit, blocking the entire road. Behind it, a line of other trucks sat stranded, engines off, their drivers slumped outside in resignation. There was no shoulder to bypass them—the edges of the road were nothing but swampy mud and thick jungle.

Stranded in the Borderlands

We called ahead to the park headquarters, hoping for a solution. The advice came quickly: abandon the vehicle. Another driver would be waiting for us on the far side of the bottleneck. The only way forward was on foot.

So, with backpacks strapped on, we set off down the road in the sweltering tropical heat. Sweat poured down our faces as we trudged through mud, stepping carefully around deep ruts and puddles. The truck drivers watched silently as we passed—two foreigners hauling gear through a remote borderland road was clearly not something they saw every day. Their surprised stares followed us until we disappeared into the trees.

A Way Through

After about 30 minutes, we finally emerged on the other side of the jam, where another driver was waiting as promised. Climbing into the fresh vehicle felt like deliverance. We were back on track, bouncing down the road once more toward Taï National Park HQ.

It had been a long, unpredictable day, but as we pushed deeper into the rainforest, the thought crossed my mind: maybe tonight we really will be sleeping in the forest after all.

Into the Forest

Welcome at Park Headquarters

By the time we reached the Taï Park HQ, exhaustion had set in—but so had relief. The headquarters sat at the edge of the forest, with a few simple bungalows shaded by massive trees. To our surprise, an incredible lunch and ice-cold beers were waiting for us. After the trials of the road, it felt like pure luxury.

We met with the park manager, who introduced us to the rangers that would guide us into the forest. They were quiet, serious men, their faces carrying the weight of years in the bush. After a short briefing, it was time to set off.

Journey Upriver

Our entry into Taï began with a boat trip upriver. The “river” was little more than a narrow creek, often choked with fallen logs and tangled roots. At times we had to shove the boat over obstacles just to keep moving.

The biting insects were relentless. Clouds of them swarmed the boat, and the worst were the giant horseflies, whose stingers pierced right through our clothes whenever the boat slowed. Still, we scanned the banks for signs of wildlife—

• We glimpsed a small crocodile, possibly a pygmy, before it vanished into the water.

• A few troops of monkeys cackled at us from the treetops, announcing our arrival deeper into their territory.

As the sun dipped, the forest shadows stretched across the river, and the boat ride grew eerily haunting. Each time we struck a submerged log or rock, the boat rocked dangerously, threatening to capsize under the encroaching water.

Nightfall in the Jungle

After nearly two hours on the water, darkness fully enveloped us. Finally, the rangers pulled the boat ashore and told us we’d continue on foot. They had no flashlights, so I handed over a few of my spares.

The trail was muddy, narrow, and overgrown, cutting straight into the thick rainforest. Every step demanded vigilance—we were told to watch for snakes and even elephants, which occasionally wandered near the paths at night.

My friend slipped into the mud a few times, the long day taking its toll, but we pushed on. Towering trees loomed above us, their silhouettes lost in the night sky. Around us, the jungle exploded with the sounds of nocturnal life: shrill insect calls, the croak of unseen frogs, and distant rustles that hinted at larger animals moving just beyond the reach of our lights.

It was eerie, exhausting, and exhilarating all at once. By the time we finally reached camp, we were drenched in sweat and mud, standing in the living heart of one of the last great rainforests of West Africa.

Monitor Lizard We saw on the River

The long jungle hike in the dark

Day 3: Camp in the Jungle

A Scientific Outpost

Our camp was not just a tourist site—it was an active research base for scientists studying Taï’s wild chimpanzee populations. The setup was simple but ingenious: tents raised on wooden platforms, protecting us from flooding during the long rainy season.

Arriving at camp felt like a victory. After two grueling days of travel, we were finally in the heart of Taï. Dinner that night was a feast under the forest canopy, and in celebration, we uncorked a bottle of red wine. As we ate, the sounds of the jungle surrounded us—an orchestra of insects and nocturnal creatures, a constant reminder that this was their world, not ours.

The Ranger’s Bad News

But the mood shifted when the lead ranger cleared his throat to give us an update. The chimps, he explained, had left the area earlier that morning.

According to one of the scientists, they had crossed toward the river—the very one we had just traveled. The theory was that they were moving into another chimpanzee group’s territory to raid fruit trees and perhaps even wage war.

The ranger continued:

• Territorial Battles: When chimpanzees invade rival territory, fights can break out, sometimes deadly.

• Human Threats: Crossing the plantations made them vulnerable to hunters—workers who had no cultural taboos against killing primates.

• Timing: The chimps often stayed away for days when they made such forays.

In short, the message was clear: we wouldn’t be seeing chimpanzees.

Holding on to Hope

Still, I wasn’t ready to give up so easily. I decided I’d wake up at first light and hike into the nearby forest. Even if the odds were slim, the chance of encountering the legendary Taï chimpanzees was worth the effort.

That night, as I lay in the tent listening to the rainforest erupt with the calls of nocturnal creatures, I held on to that thread of hope. Tomorrow would bring the real test.

Tent platform

Day 3: Morning with the Chimps

Awakening to the Forest

At dawn, I was jolted awake by the unmistakable hooting calls of chimpanzees echoing through the canopy. Against all odds, luck had turned in our favor. While most of the troop had marched off on their war party, a mother with her infants and a handful of others had remained behind—right above our camp.

To hear their calls in the wild, reverberating through the dense rainforest, was a moment I’ll never forget. It was the sound of deep time—an ancient language still spoken in the trees.

Protecting Them, Protecting Us

Before approaching, we donned protective masks. The rule is strict: no one comes close to habituated chimps without a mask. The reason is simple—humans and chimpanzees share 98.8% of our DNA, which means we can easily transmit viruses to each other. A common cold for us could be devastating to them.

The risk goes both ways. Chimpanzees can carry deadly viruses as well, including Ebola, which is native to the region. Out here, in one of the last strongholds of wild chimps, the line between our species feels both razor-thin and impossibly vast.

A Precious Encounter

Looking up into the canopy, we could see the mother carefully tending to her infants, the younger ones swinging playfully from branches, while older chimps moved deliberately, watching us with curiosity. They were close enough to hear the rustle of their movements, close enough to look directly into their intelligent eyes.

It was a humbling moment—this was their forest, their home, and for a brief time, we were allowed to share it.

West African Chimp

Young Chimp

A Wild Welcome

As we stood quietly beneath the tree, marveling at the family of chimpanzees above us, the scene suddenly turned less serene. The mother chimp, clearly uneasy with our presence, began hurling feces and urine down from the branches. We ducked and dodged, laughing nervously, doing our best to avoid the bombardment. It was a sharp reminder: these were not zoo animals, but wild beings entirely in control of their forest.

Eye to Eye

Then, in a startling shift, the mother descended the tree. With her infant clinging to her back, she stopped barely twenty feet away, fixing us with a piercing stare. For a moment, time seemed suspended—two species, bound by nearly identical DNA, measuring each other in silence.

Before we could react, she bolted across the forest floor, disappearing into the undergrowth.

A Gentle Warning

My ranger guide immediately reached for my arm, his grip firm.
“Let her go,” he whispered. “Do not crowd her.”

His words were a reminder of the fragility of these encounters: respect was paramount, and the line between observation and intrusion was thin.

Our Ranger Guide

The Troop Returns

Just as the mother disappeared into the undergrowth, our ranger suddenly pointed skyward. “Look—there, the troop has returned.”

High above us, hundreds of feet up in the canopy, the forest came alive. The jungle filled with the deep hoots, screams, and rustling of dozens of chimpanzees. Out of the shadows swung the dominant males—massive, muscular figures whose sheer presence was intimidating. They watched us carefully, their dark eyes tracking every movement.

The Wild Theater of Chimp Society

For the next hour we stood transfixed, watching as the troop revealed its complex social fabric:

• Displays of Dominance: The older, larger males asserted themselves by loudly smacking branches and occasionally striking the younger, submissive chimps.

• Vocal Chaos: Calls echoed across the forest, ranging from deep pant-hoots to high-pitched screams, reverberating like a symphony of the wild.

• Unwelcome Guests: Several chimps hurled branches, feces, and even streams of urine in our direction—clear messages that we were intruders in their world.

It was raw, unpredictable, and entirely unscripted—an extraordinary glimpse into the daily life of one of our closest relatives.

Departure from the Forest

Eventually, the ranger signaled that it was time to go. As much as we wanted to stay, the long journey back to San Pedro awaited us.

We shouldered our packs, still buzzing from the experience. After days of uncertainty—storms, roadblocks, warnings, and setbacks—we had been given what we came for: a rare window into the lives of Taï’s chimpanzees.

As we turned back down the trail, the sounds of the troop faded into the jungle, leaving us with mud on our clothes, aching muscles, and the memory of one of the most powerful wildlife encounters of my life.

Chimp Raucous in the Jungle

A nut that a chimp opened with a rock

Day 4: The Long Road Back

Leaving the Forest

After breakfast at camp, it was time to retrace our steps. We hiked back through the muddy trail, boarded the same narrow boat for the two-hour trip downstream, and finally reached the park headquarters. There, waiting faithfully, was the 4WD vehicle we had abandoned the day before on the far side of the mud pit. Our driver greeted us, eager to make up for lost time, and by noon we were back on the road. Ahead lay six to seven hours of driving to reach San Pedro.

Breakdown in the Middle of Nowhere

A few hours into the journey, the vehicle suddenly coughed, sputtered, and died. The driver, trying to mask his concern, insisted it was “no problem.” He popped the hood, fiddled with a mess of wires, and gave us a reassuring smile. But his eyes betrayed him—panic was setting in.

We were in a remote and exposed stretch of road. The tropical heat was punishing, there were no villages in sight, and cell phone reception was nonexistent. From time to time, motorbike drivers would stop, lean over the engine, debate possible fixes, then shrug and drive off. We even tried push-starting the car by rolling it downhill, but it refused to catch.

Communicating with our driver through a translation app, we went back and forth. He kept repeating “tout va bien”—everything is fine—but we knew otherwise.

Jumping Ship

After more than an hour stranded, I made the call: it was time to abandon ship and hitchhike. We flagged down a battered sedan that looked barely roadworthy, but at least it ran. For a handful of bills, the driver agreed to take us the rest of the way to San Pedro.

The new ride was rough—no 4WD, seats torn to shreds, and a stereo blasting Ivorian rap music at maximum volume, the speakers crackling with every beat. Our driver was a large, unsmiling man who handled the wheel like a madman. On dusty stretches, visibility dropped to zero, yet he drove with reckless confidence, overtaking trucks blindly and barreling forward “like a bat out of hell.”

Return to Civilization

At last, battered and dust-covered, we rolled into San Pedro. Our stern driver delivered us safely to our hotel, and the sight of its lobby felt like an oasis.

That night, we collapsed into long showers, scrubbing off layers of sweat and dirt. Dinner was pizza and cold beer—simple comforts that had never tasted so good.

Exhausted but satisfied, we knew we had been lucky. Against all odds, we had seen Taï’s legendary chimpanzees and returned to tell the story.

Day 4 & 5: Closing Out Côte d’Ivoire

A Day of Rest in San Pedro

After the chaos of Taï, we allowed ourselves a slower start. In San Pedro, we finally slept in, enjoying the chance to rest. The morning was spent strolling along the beach, letting the Atlantic waves wash away the fatigue of jungle travel.

By afternoon, we boarded a domestic flight back to Abidjan, where we checked into the Sofitel Hôtel Ivoire, a sleek 5-star property courtesy of Richard’s arrangements. After days of rough roads, mud, and sweltering heat, the comforts of luxury—air-conditioning, crisp sheets, and a hot shower—felt surreal.

Grand-Bassam: Echoes of the Past

On our final morning in Côte d’Ivoire, before catching our flight to Conakry, Guinea, we detoured to Grand-Bassam, the former colonial capital. The seaside town, once a showcase of French West Africa, now feels like a time capsule.

We wandered quiet streets lined with crumbling French colonial mansions, their faded grandeur and empty halls whispering of another era. The mix of tropical decay and elegant architecture made the town feel both eerie and beautiful.

Lunch by the Sea, Shadows of Violence

We ended our visit with lunch and a beer at a beachside restaurant. The setting was idyllic—waves rolling in, locals laughing nearby—but the place carried a darker history.

Only a few years earlier, in 2016, this very stretch of beach had been the scene of a shocking terrorist attack. Militants from Mali opened fire on beachgoers, killing 19 people, mostly French tourists. Standing there, it was difficult to reconcile the peaceful atmosphere with the violence of that day. Why militants would strike here, so far from Mali’s desert battlefields, remains hard to comprehend.

Reflections on Côte d’Ivoire

From the wild jungles of Taï to the colonial relics of Grand-Bassam, Côte d’Ivoire revealed itself as a country of contrasts—untamed rainforest, bustling modern cities, tragic histories, and resilient people.

Our five days felt far too short, yet they gave us a taste of the country’s immense ecological and cultural richness. More importantly, they reminded me of why I travel: to push through the unpredictability, to witness rare beauty, and to stand in places where history—both ancient and modern—still echoes.

Abandoned French colonial era mansion 

Graffiti Inside French mansion

Local man who lives in an abandoned French colonial era mansion