Africa

Days Nine to Twelve

Wednesday:

The Road to Zanzibar

Zanzibar. The very name conjures up a romantic, idyllic notion of a far-off place of exotic proportions. When I was very young, I watched an “adult” movie … Bob Hope and Bing Crosby in The Road to Zanzibar, and somehow then (I could barely watch two minutes of the movie recently) it caught my attention and Zanzibar was imprinted on my brain. So when it was suggested as an add-on to our African itinerary, I jumped at the opportunity.

Packed and ready to go, we meet Elias after breakfast. With a big smile, he promises the drive to the airport will be short … our plane is scheduled for take-off at the Manyara airstrip at ten. The drive is through lush rolling farmland and when we stop for a few minutes to view Lake Manyara we are swarmed by hawkers, selling cheap handcrafts. We buy a few things until eventually, Elias shoos them away.

We arrive at the airstrip just before ten. There is a small building, which serves as the airport, and we are ushered into a sparse lounge with well-worn furniture, and offered extremely dense coffee by one of the officials. There are a couple of small planes parked outside but they eventually leave. After about an hour it becomes clear to us that there is no chipped-in-stone departure time for us, or even a plane. It is all a kind of waiting game. Elias stays with us out of duty, but eventually we say our good byes, and encourage him to be on his way.

A party of four joins us. They are Scandinavian, Danish, as I recollect, and the one fellow, I swear, is a dead ringer for Klaus Maria Brandauer in Out of Africa. He begins a tirade on the inefficiency of the closure of the Sand River/Bologonja Gate border crossing between the Masai Mara and the Serengeti requiring the long drive, that we experienced, if one wants to visit both areas. Of course we agree with him wholeheartedly. A few more people arrive and, low and behold, a plane touches down and we are all escorted out to the tarmac. 

Once we are settled on the plane, the pilot takes a head count and determines that there are two missing. There is much form checking and comments from the passengers (that we should leave without them, being already very late) and although David and I have no paperwork regarding our flight, our names fortunately are on the list. Finally after much bickering and some rather colourful language from Klaus Maria, the pilot agrees to take off. This is when we find out that we are first going to Kilamanjaro, and maybe, Dar es Salaam … so not the direct flight we expected.

We fly through a storm. Our small twelve-seater is tossed about in the blackest clouds I have ever seen. Because David and I are near the front, I can see what the pilot sees, which is nothing but pelting rain and darkness. I do what I normally do in these situations – pretend that it is fun, and quietly pray. Fortunately the flight is short and when we touch down at Kili we get out, check that our baggage remains on the plane, and take a picture. The mountain, itself, is lost in the clouds.

Fortunately our stop is next and when we embark at the Zanzibar airport mid afternoon we see our name held up in the reception area. The airport is chaotic and the air stifling hot and humid. The fellow who greets us leads us outside to where Omar, our guide for this portion of our journey, is waiting.  We have about an hour drive ahead of us (so he says) and we settle back in the air-conditioned van to take in the sights.

The first thing we are aware of is that it we are in a very Muslim part of the world. Away from the tourists at the airport, every woman we now see is covered in varying degrees – from head to toe burkas, to the more liberal hijab and kanga. Most of the women favour the kanga, a colourful wrap of fabric (often with a border containing a message in Swahili) and I have to say, they are stunningly beautiful. David asks if it is a Muslim country and Omar is quick to answer, “No sharia law here! In Zanzibar, British law.”

As on the day we drove from the Masai Mara to the Serengeti, we pass through small villages overflowing with teems of people, hanging out … alongside the road … in front of small shops that are barely more than corrugated steel boxes … in front of mud and cement block, windowless squares, that serve as homes. Omar tells us how apathetic people are … there are so few jobs and so little hope … and yet, more babies are born, and life goes on. Omar feels lucky making about $180 a month as a driver and tour guide, but his dream is one day to own his own car. For that he will need $3,000, a daunting amount in his world.

After what I call an “African hour”, we turn off the road onto a sandy lane that meanders among small, whitewashed, stucco cubes that serve as homes – upscale ones compared to what we have been seeing. Women with babies, small children, and goats are scattered about, and behind them, a line of palms, and glimpses of turquoise ocean - the Indian ocean! We pass through a gated adobe wall and finally arrive at the Azanzi Beach Hotel compound.

Our large room has a distinct Arabian flair to it, with a netted bed and both an indoor bath and an enclosed outdoor shower. I immediately spy a very long centipede creeping across the tiled floor and feel brave enough to fling it into the outdoor shower but make a note as to where it lands. After quickly unpacking, I check out the property, which appears long and narrow. A boardwalk connects the thatched, hut-like rooms, and at the end of the boardwalk the sunless pool sits under a huge thatched dome with dining and bar areas on either side. A few more steps and my feet hit the powdery white sand and before I know it, I am stepping through hibiscus and palms and onto the beach.

Visually, it is every bit as beautiful as the guidebooks describe. The turquoise water, the white sand, the palms, the ancient looking wooden dhows pulled up on the beach … colorful Maasai men, kanga wrapped women, naked children doing handstands along the edge of the waves … it all seems rather idyllic and dreamlike.

I leave the beach and search out David who is in the lobby trying to connect to the internet on my iPad. I can tell by his expression he is not a happy camper. But he looks up and says, “You won’t believe this! The woman partner of the managing couple here at the Azanzi is from Jacquet River!” Now, Jacquet River, New Brunswick, has a population of about 1,200 give or take, so the odds of meeting up with someone in Zanzibar from there … especially, the manager of where we are staying … is amazing. In fact, her children are visiting their grandparents in Jacquet River, while we are here. Small world, indeed.

David and I return to the room to change for dinner and find that the maids have been in to spray for bugs. This is the first time since we have been in Africa, that the spray is so obvious – it almost knocks me out – and I am sure it can’t be good for me.  Lucky for the centipede that I tossed it outside, earlier. We decide not to get changed and go for dinner, hoping the fumes will have dissipated by the time we are ready for bed.

The evening dining room is upstairs, under the large thatched dome. It is connected by a walkway, over the pool, to the evening bar on the other side (during the day, all eating and drinking activity is beside or around the pool). Other than the dome, it is open air, and the breeze is a pleasant relief from the earlier heat. The meal is buffet style – a selection of vegetable salads, fish, chicken … I think it might be themed, although not sure what the theme is tonight, but we are hungry and dig in. We scan our fellow diners … an east Indian couple seeming to be having a bit of a spat, a good looking Nordic family of four (a preppy teenage son and waif-like model daughter, perhaps college age), a middle-aged couple who appear to be either having an affair or are on their honeymoon (lots of eye gazing), and a larger family of six. The place is definitely not filled.

We return to the room and are so dead tired the lingering fumes are bearable. Our itinerary has a full two days planned for us, but I think we both mumble to each other, before falling asleep, “Let’s not go anywhere tomorrow…” 

Thursday:

A Little Local Colour

Zanzibar is known for its long varied history – for centuries merchant traders from India, Arabia, Persia, Asia, and Russia visited the two islands that comprise the archipelago, known as Zanzibar – and, for a time the Portuguese had dibs on this land, until the Sultan of Oman claimed it for himself in the late 1600’s. It soon became a centre for the slave and ivory trade and remained as such until the British took hold of Zanzibar in the 1920’s.

Stone Town, a UNESCO site, is the largest and oldest settlement on the island and we are scheduled to take in a full day there, as well as a half-day, to tour a spice farm (Zanzibar has an abundance of fresh spices). When we wake up Thursday morning somewhat refreshed, we decide that we will nix the spice farm (we know this will be a real tourist trap) and settle on a half-day in Stone Town. Omar is already waiting for us at the lobby after breakfast, and although somewhat disappointed not to show us a full day, he understands our desire to get back to the beach.

We retrace yesterday’s drive from the airport, arriving mid morning in Stone Town. We need to buy a small suitcase (we have bought very little, but still too much to fit in our two bags) so Omar stops beside a stall in the market, jumps out with David, and they quickly return with a bag. Not so much a bargain, I might add! Next we park the van and wind our way through the narrow lanes to the Anglican Cathedral, built in the late 1800’s by Bishop Steere (a fierce anti-slaver) on the site of what used to be the island’s largest slave market. Omar takes us first underground to the dank, dark, humid, holding cells of slaves … a space so small, so harsh, it is hard to fathom human beings crammed in there. It literally makes me nauseous and I quickly reverse back through the line of tourists coming in. Outside there is a sculpture dedicated to the slaves … it is both chillingly beautiful and utterly heartbreaking.

Our next stop is the Palace Museum – built on the site of the first sultan’s palace – this current building dates back to the late 1890’s. The interior is dark and musty, with decrepit display cases of artifacts from the sultans’ dynasty. We climb to the third floor and step out onto the balcony from where we look over the harbour and listen to the drone of prayers emanating from loudspeakers atop the nearby mosque. I am finding it all oppressive and want to get away … back to the sea … back to the savannah … anywhere there is space.

 

I am saved by lunch at the lovely, heritage, oceanfront Serena Hotel and, through the open window, watch men in their long white robes and embroidered skullcaps wandering down the beach, young boys in their underwear playing in the waves, and crows squabbling over morsels of food. I feel so much better.

When we get back to the Azanzi I nab a lounge chair and settle under one of the thatched umbrellas. It is far too hot to sit in the direct sun but, even under the umbrella, I begin to lose my winter pallor. Unfortunately there are a few disappointing features of this beach – a reef lies about a kilometer offshore and, when the tide is low, it is impossible to swim with the threat sharp coral ready to rip you to shreds – as well, there are a large number of sea urchins covered in their tiny spears. When the tide is high, you have about a three-foot safety zone … but heaven forbid you place a foot down (unless you are wearing the sturdy rubber shoes supplied by the surf shop). So I find myself not only shunning the very dark and public pool but also the ocean.

In the evening before dinner we walk south down the beach. There are no high-rise resorts here but smaller fenced tourist compounds, interspersed with local huts, and palms, and wild vegetation. Locals are going about their daily routines … fishing … hanging out … selling the odd things … and it is relatively quiet, without the constant harassing found in so many other “vacation” destinations. However, what we find early the following morning, is a little too much local flavour for me.

Friday:

A Day Off

Friday morning we wake to the first completely free day we have had on this trip. Nothing is planned but a day to read, to pack for tomorrow’s departure, to get a little more sun. After breakfast we decide to walk north up the beach where we have been told there is 

a village.

Within a kilometer we begin to see a lot of activity … men, women and children … and it is soon very clear that the beach, before the tide comes in to take it away, is used as a giant latrine. David is a little slower than me to pick up on it. He is taking in the whole scene, fascinated by the goings on … but I have become fixated on exactly what we are stepping over and around and heading deeper into.

“We have to turn back now,” I say and upon seeing what I see, he agrees. It is at this moment that I long to be home again.

We spend the rest of the day reading and sleeping under the umbrella. I chit chat with some of the other vacationers – a couple from South Africa, on their fourth day here, say, “What were we thinking coming here?” A family from the Netherlands is spending a lot of time reading. No one has been using the pool or been in the ocean. I refrain from asking if others ventured north on the beach.

Friday dinner is Italian night. Well, African/Italian. Much the same as we have been eating … vegetables, fish, chicken … with some pasta added to the mix. We retire to our freshly sprayed room, finish packing (we hardly bought anything but why do we have so much extra?) and sleep our final African sleep.

Saturday:

The Long Road Home

We are in the lobby at eight to meet Omar who will take us to the airport to catch the flight to Nairobi. Again, we do not really have tickets, but only our itinerary, which indicates what time our flight leaves. I am anxious enough flying and these vague arrangements work me into a sweat.

At the airport, we take leave of Omar. The little fellow who met us upon our arrival is supposed to meet us here but is nowhere in sight. The small airport is chaos and we choose the line that looks most like the one we should be in (no one knows anything, we do not really know what airline we are on, and there are no indications where to go). We are about fifty people back in line and the line, in an hour, barely moves. As our departure time looms ever so close another wicket opens and we finally get someone’s attention.

“Ah, your plane is leaving in five minutes! You must go through!” He takes our extra bag to check (which we think we will never see again), ushers us over to the immigration counter where we are to get our passports stamped and pay our departure tax … but they just wave us on and point to security … where we wait again for someone to arrive. In the tiny passenger lounge we ask a fellow traveler if he is on the plane to Nairobi and he points and says, “That one, closing the doors. You better run!” And run we do, out on the tarmac, dodging small prop planes that look a little too close for comfort. By the time we haul our carry-on luggage up the stairs and sit, our bodies are so drenched we could be hung up to dry.

The flight is actually quite pleasant, once my heart rate returns to normal.

We arrive at the Nairobi airport late in the afternoon and as our flight does not leave until around midnight, Jackson meets us to take us to a “fancy’ restaurant for dinner. After a short drive we pass through a gate with armed guards, who once again, check under the van for bombs. The building we enter is a modern multi storey structure that apparently houses high-end shops and a restaurant, which is Argentinean “churrasco” style. It is New Years Eve and it looks like they are hoping for lots of customers, but so far we are the only ones. Our waiter is very disappointed I don’t eat meat, but David obliges him the best he can. Eventually a large group of about fifteen comes in, in their most sparkly attire, and it takes the pressure off us to eat more.

By the time we get back to the airport, we are beat and not looking forward to the overnight flight to Amsterdam. At security, one of our carry-ons requires opening, and the agent holds up the beaded talking stick we bought from the Massai friends we met at Mara West. “This cannot be carried on,” he says, at which point, David, in his most tired state, says, “Well, you can have it!”

“No, no, no,” says the agent. “We will check it through for you.” And sure enough, a tag is attached to the most lovely beaded stick as David and I both look at each other and say, “I’ll believe it when I see it!”

We have wonderful seats and before we know it the plane takes off and everyone is counting down to the New Year. There is free champagne for all, and David and I do a special quiet toast to our thirty-third anniversary (well, wedding that is … we celebrate several anniversaries each year!) We thought there might be too much noise and merriment, but it seems that everyone on the plane is as tired as we are and soon we are passing over the African continent and sleeping until we land.

Upon booking this trip we made a wise decision and booked a day room at the Amsterdam Sheridan Hotel. We arrive around 5:00 am and our flight doesn’t leave until 3:00 pm so the room is a blessing on the long road home. We do manage to get a little more sleep and a good meal before we head across the ocean.

When we arrive in Montreal, late Sunday evening, enroute to Moncton, we have to pick up our luggage to pass through customs. “What about the talking stick?” I ask David. “Ha!” he replies as we watch the luggage spill unto the carousel. “I’ll check the ‘oversize baggage’,” I reply, and sure enough, as I watch the large boxes, and golf clubs, and other ‘unusual’ items emerge, there, all by itself, in its beaded glory, is the talking stick.

As I pick it up I am sure I hear the tinkle of the cattle bells, smell the scent of the savannah, feel the breath of a giraffe gliding by … and even though I am only a few hours from home, I am already planning our next trip back.