The Global Environment Facility (GEF) has approved USD 6.4 million for a new conservation initiative in Papua New Guinea that seeks to protect 700,000 hectares of critical highland ecosystems by placing Indigenous Peoples and local communities at the centre of conserving and managing their ancestral lands.
As ministers, diplomats and development officials assembled in Samarkand Congress Centre for a ceremonial family photograph, the mood carried unusual symbolism. Behind the smiles and formalities stood a region confronting a harder reality: rivers are shrinking, soils are tiring, temperatures are rising, and the old ways of managing land and water are no longer working.
Ask any woman miner in the Katoro goldfield in Tanzania’s northern Geita region, and she will tell you that she touches toxic mercury with her bare hands when extracting gold from crushed ore.
In the opulent conference halls of Samarkand, far from the drought-hit fields of East Africa, Tanzanian delegates have warned that unless global climate finance is directed to rural communities, environmental destruction will only accelerate, deepening the vulnerability of those least responsible for the crisis.
As the Global Environment Facility (GEF) steps into the starting blocks of its next financial cycle, the Interim CEO Claude Gascon reflects on what he termed a “moment of transition and delivery".
Every year, when dark clouds gather above the dense forests of the Philippines, 56-year-old Mini Baeyens, of the Aplay Kankanaey tribe, vigilantly watches the sky.
While the Global Environment Facility (GEF) said its eighth replenishment cycle (GEF-8) was about to exceed environmental targets for biodiversity protection, marine conservation, ecosystem restoration, and reducing greenhouse gas emissions, governments and civil society groups called for stronger safeguards to ensure that local communities, Indigenous Peoples, and smaller implementing agencies are not left behind as funding mechanisms become more complex.
Under the warm waters off Tanzania’s Mafia Island, marine scientist Asha Mgeni hovers above a coral reef she has studied for years. Small fish dart through the currents. To most divers, the reef appears pristine. But Mgeni notices something unusual.
At dawn, as the sun rises across the Indian Ocean, Venance Shayo perches on the edge of his boat, hauling in a net. The sea gently ripples under the breeze and the sound of revving engines.
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.