28 MARCH, 2015

Again we find our selves at Dar Es Salaam airport, but this time on a FastJet (SlowDepart) flight to Johannesburg on leg one of our return home. At one stage it seemed improbable we would get to the airport. We felt a sense of achievement that we had negotiated the clutching hands of porters and taxi hawkers at the ferry terminal, insisting that we wanted to walk and find a restaurant. The taxi hawkers immediately became restaurant hawkers.

So with high 30s heat and 90s humidity, our shirts drenched, we strolled up the commercial district in search of a cafe. We found Rangers Cafe which had very reasonable fare and a good price. Mind you, the taxi rank for the casino was just outside, and the sight of tourists carrying suitcases aroused the drivers’ predatory instincts and they kept a careful watch on our movements. The moment we made a move they rushed the door, but surprisingly, the cafe owner materialised his own driver who agreed to take us for 40,000 TSS in a comfy Mercedes.

Because we thought we had surplus time we had contemplated asking for the tourist route to see a bit more of Dar, a sprawling city of over 4 million people.  But the driver spoke only one word of English: airport. Dar traffic is either at a standstill or rocket speed. We were stalled in traffic for ages: crawl 50 metres, wait ten minutes… The ample time we had allowed was rapidly evaporating. I think our driver was one of Dar’s rare Christians as he was listening to a very loud broadcast of some sort of Catholic service with incessant and repeated monotone chants and responses… Maa wee kar jun mar Maria… Carn wee nar gar harm. During a particularly long traffic pause and especially monotonous droning, he spread his hands as indicating a book and said “bible”: maybe a second english word. After about an hour of chants, the priest must have decided we needed a sermon which he delivered with enthusiasm and vigour.

Whatever his faith, our driver was actually blessed with miraculous powers of deliverance. Without warning we lurched across several lanes of traffic, horns blaring, and onto a dirt track, sort of like a footpath, but better suited to motocross. We splashed and rocked and rolled, bounced along, circumventing the gridlock on the other side of the road. Any pedestrian, cyclist or competitor car got in our way at their peril. Finally we cleared all the traffic and returned to the road. Back on the highway, I can honestly say I feared for our lives, as well as the lives of others on the road, as we rocketed along at a mad pace, horn blazing away, everyone leaping for safety. Despite the mad panic of the journey our driver was leaning lazily on the door, one hand on the wheel and with relaxed composure of one out for a lazy Sunday drive.

Finally, ashen-faced, we stumbled out of the car on arrival at the airport, kissed the pavement and went through the normal airport routines – hanging around, followed by more of that.

Sitting in the hot airport lounge, and watching Jenny go through her pre-flight routines  medicating for travel sickness, and medicating my own anxieties with a local lager, gave me some moments to reflect on our week at Pongwe Beach, Zanzibar.

We had only a few fellow guests: a Polish couple, a young American family having a break from their consular posting in Ethiopia, and another American couple. There was, consequently, plenty of staff to give us all extra attention. We arrived there on Monday and spent most of the week lazing, swimming, the odd cocktail for Jenny and lager for me. We did some canoeing and even had a go at stand-up paddling, or in my case lie-down paddling. The waters were calm and warm and very inviting.

Fiona’s partner, Don, last year recommended we go to The Rock, a restaurant perched atop a rocky outcrop which becomes a wee island when the tide is in. I had seen that it had a very good write up in one of the airline flight mags. The Rock is South of Pongwe, about a 90 minute drive, so we set off in what we thought was plenty of time. After about twenty minutes, I asked Jen whether she had the scrap of paper given to us by Sammy, the car hire guy, who had instructed us to have it with us at all times to present to any police stops.

A quick search revealed that we did not have the paper so there was a bit of discussion whether to go back. Although we had not seen any police we thought it best to collect the needed paper, which turned out to be quite prudent, as we were stopped five time during the rest of the journey. “Where are you going, where are your papers, how long have you been here” – all sorts of unnecessary questions that would not be tolerated at home. The Rock turned out to be a very pleasant spot for a meal, and we enjoyed our excursion, a chat to a Danish couple at the restaurant, and a look at a different part of Zanzibar. We tried a different route on the way back – a road under construction. Wide, straight and void of cars, it saved us about 20 minutes on the return home, with the only inconvenience having to share some of our journey with graders and rollers. Back home there would have been a team of people stopping traffic and allowing cars through when safe, but here we had to dodge the graders.

On Thursday we were to go on another excursion, this time to Cheetahs Rock. Realising that they would only accept cash and that the only ATMs on Zanzibar are at Stonetown, and aware of our rough journey on Monday, I took the car for a “quick” dash across to the other side of the island. Going the conventional way and with Mr Google Maps keeping me on the best route took just on an hour, and gave me a chance to have a test run for Friday’s trip to the ferry. Stonetown is full of people, a lively push of folk, many of whom want to lighten your burden of carrying cash. Like James, for example who pointed out a car space and uninvited stood guard, but was unimpressed with my offer of a tip. To avoid having his friends come over and help persuade me, I parted with 10,000 (about $7) but committed to be better prepared next time.

A cab picked us up to take us to Cheetahs Rock, just north so Stonetown. It is more of a refuge than a sanctuary or zoo. jenny, the owner is German and collects animals from zoos and other collections around the world, especially where they have outlived their usefulness and in danger of being disposed of. Some animals are gifts from her patrons which include some Arabian royalty. Jenny tames and trains using humanitarian principles- no punishments, no drugs. It is a wonderful experience of interaction with the animals, though some, like the white lion (Aslan) are kept at a safe distance. My Jenny was a little apprehensive about being up close and personal with the animals. But having the Bush Babies and other lemurs feed from your hands, leap on to your shoulder is amazing. Jen did spend a moment with the zebra and I think they both enjoyed that experience. But the highlight was to sit with and stroke the cheetah, Tyson, a pure athlete, alert and beautiful, even purring. I offered my own purr in response which normally impresses our own domestic cats, but the cheetah ignored my overtures. Truly an impressive experience and we are so glad we took this opportunity. The place has only been operational for about 8 months, so there is still a way to go before it is at full scale.

The taxi returned us safely home. We were nervous wrecks by the time we got home, even though our driver was a very cautious and good driver. On the dark and narrow roads there were children, cyclists, people appearing out of nowhere. There is an incredible number of people who walk the roads at all times of the day. How they see where they are going is anyone’s guess. It is a mystery the roads are not littered with the bodies of those too slow to leap to safety.

Well, we are now in the safety of our Airbus A319. We were late getting away, so we will be late to Johannesburg. The pilot is doing his best to make up lost time. Jenny’s potions seem to be effective so far, but she was working up to a real state of travel sickness. We ordered extra sick bags. She is definitely the world’s worst traveller. We are not overly impressed with FastJet. They certainly cram in the seats which are rather poor quality anyway. The seats don’t recline (except for the ones in front of you!)

I will post this from Jo’burg. It is a bit hard to deal with images on iPad on the plane. Later – now in Jo’burg, sick bags intact, resting in hotel. Off to Cape Town in the morning.

kwaheri!