As global shipping braces for another round of high-stakes negotiations, a volatile mix of rising fuel costs, geopolitical tensions and deep political divisions is testing the fragile consensus around a proposed Net-Zero Framework (NZF) aimed at decarbonising one of the world’s most polluting industries.
At Mazimbu village, not far from Tanzania’s Sokoine University of Agriculture (SUA), Stephano Jaka still remembers the night he trapped and killed a rat that had been feasting on his maize cobs – stored in a meticulously woven basket designed to protect grains from rodents.
By the time the auction begins at Nangurukuru fish market in Tanzania’s southern Lindi region, the crisis is already visible. Wooden canoes that once returned from the Rufiji River with heavy catches now bring only a fraction of what they used to. Traders scan for the long-whiskered catfish that once defined the market but find none.
At dawn, the Ruvuma River moves quietly through a vast wetland along the border between Tanzania and Mozambique. Its muddy waters appear calm, disturbed only by drifting logs and the occasional ripple.
A cloud of steam rises from a giant aluminium pot as Maria Joseph, a middle-aged cook in a toque blanche and faded apron, plants her feet firmly on the tiled kitchen floor. With both hands clasped around a wooden paddle, she plunges deep into the mound of rice, threatening to burn at the bottom.
As the tide falls on Zanzibar’s western coast, 13-year-old Asha* moves across the reef, her gown flapping in knee-deep water. She carries a plastic basin and a knife. Since dawn, Asha has been prying octopus and scaling fish for drying and selling.
On a rainy Wednesday morning, in Dodoma, the capital of Tanzania, the Standard Gauge Railway (SGR) terminal bustled with a steady flow of passengers. Women ushered toddlers along. Snack bags dangling on their hands. Tourists dragged wheeled suitcases across the floor. Students scrolled through smartphones as they returned to campus. Each had been attracted by the speed, reliability and comfort of the electric train.
At dawn in the mangrove-choked Rufiji estuary, paddles from wooden canoes slice through still waters as a soft voice drifts across the tide.
On a warm morning at Matemwe, a small crowd gathers behind a rope barrier as the sand begins to tremble. A tiny head pushes through a soft mound of earth, then another, and another. Within minutes, the shallow nest—protected for weeks by a ring of wooden stakes and mesh—comes alive with the rustle of dozens of hatchlings. Volunteers crouch nearby, recording the emergence time and shading the small creatures with their hands to protect them from swooping gulls.
At dawn in Manzese, a dusty township on the outskirts of Dar es Salaam, silence hangs where the sounds of commerce once roared. The township, usually crowded with street cooks, vegetable vendors, mechanics, and motorcycle taxis snaking through the morning rush, stood eerily empty. Shutters are pulled down, wooden stalls abandoned, and the air is heavy with the smell of burnt rubber. For five days, the township’s bustling economic life has been paralyzed—leaving residents unable to buy food or access basic services.
When COVID-19 hit Tanzania in 2020, Alfred Kisena’s life was torn apart. The 51-year-old teacher still remembers the night he learned that his wife, Maria, had succumbed to the virus at a hospital in Dar es Salaam. He wasn’t allowed to see her in her final moments.
The dust was already swirling when Asherly William Hogo lifted himself from a makeshift bed before dawn. The 62-year-old pastoralist, lean from a lifetime of walking these plains, slipped into his sandals and stepped outside. Stars glittered over Dodoma, but the air was warmer than it used to be, Hogo swears. He whistled for his cows. Years ago, this hour meant an arduous trek to distant waterholes.
On a hot afternoon in Kariakoo, Dar es Salaam’s bustling commercial hub, the air is a swirling mix of diesel exhaust, charcoal smoke and dust kicked up by the shuffle of feet. Traders tie handkerchiefs over their noses to deter haze from drifting into their throats and lungs.
The room at the Swiss Inn Nexus Hotel in Bole was silent but tense as Sunita Narain, one of the world’s most influential environmental voices, fixed her gaze on rows of African journalists, scientists, and policymakers. Her tone was gentle, but the words cut deep.
The theater of diplomacy can be more revealing than the speeches. Under a scorching Caspian sun in Awaza, two marines lowered their flags with the precision of a ballet. The green silk of Turkmenistan, folded into a neat bundle before the UN’s blue-and-gold standard, fluttered briefly and vanished into waiting hands.
At dawn on the white-sand shores of Jambiani, 45-year-old Saada Juma braces herself against the pull of the tide, wrangling ropes laced with seaweed. Her hands, hardened by decades of labor, move instinctively as she secures her aquatic crop.
Once relegated to the periphery of Africa’s economic map due to their lack of coastline, the continent’s landlocked developing countries (LLDCs) are now reframing their geographic constraints as gateways to opportunity.
“The term ‘negotiation' must be understood in ethical context… When an arsonist comes and burns down my house and then asks me to negotiate so I can rebuild my house, that becomes the paradox.”
In the glass-panelled hallway straddling Buildings 2 and 3 at the Awaza Congress Centre, two smartly dressed young Turkmens stood behind an ornate national pavilion—anxious, alert, and surprisingly eloquent.
When the rains pounded through the night, 44-year-old Teresia Katimba clutched her rosary and prayed silently, her fingers trembling with each whispered Hail Mary. A devout Catholic and mother of four, she stayed awake, huddling her children, hoping the floodwaters wouldn’t engulf them.
On the vast plains of Tanzania’s Ngorongoro Conservation Area (NCA), the sight of young Maasai men in bright shawls, wielding sticks as they herd cattle, has long symbolized peaceful coexistence with nature. These herders, moving in harmony with zebras and wildebeests, are inseparable from the landscape. But today, that very identity—nurtured for generations—is under siege.