Our plane leaves Seronera – without us!

We decamped our tented campsite in Central Serengeti at 0830 in time to reach the tiny Seronera airport by 0900. We felt safe with the time as we had called by the airport the day before, and our plane was already there, and it looked like we were the only scheduled passengers. As we approached the airstrip we saw a plane taking off, then realised soon after that it was probably “our” plane, as the only thing at the airstrip now that could possibly take flight was a few birds and our own sense of despair.

The Seronera airport is a fairly modest affair by international standards. It boasts a toilet block and a small open thatch roofed building where you can buy a coffee and sit on one of a few plastic garden chairs.

We went to the ticket counter… Ah, there is no ticket counter. The idea is that you wander out to one of the aircraft that might be waiting in the paddock and ask the pilot where he is headed, and if you are lucky, it is the right destination.

We discovered that our plane had been needed elsewhere, and another craft was being diverted to pick us up. Sure enough, within 15 minutes a Cessna 208 swept down from the skies ready to rescue us.

I have always had a very easy relationship with flying, though my experience in light planes has been limited to a couple of flights with a 16 year old flight student from Lake Tuggeranong College who tried to stall the plane before reaching the runway, and a daredevil flight in a Fox Moth biplane flown by one of my father’s mad friends, who was known for attempting flight under power lines.

Thirty minutes into the two hour flight I hoped for a quick death. I was short of breath, felt panicked, claustrophobic, and to make matters worse, was desperate for a pee. I was considering all the possibilities: how much could I offer the pilot to land on a road; could I hijack the plane by threatening him with the only weapon at hand, a biro pen; could I land the plane if I threw the pilot out? Every glance at the watch yielded no aid as time seemed frozen. I determined there and then to avoid all future light plane flights.

I could see the small map on the pilot’s navigation panel and eventually it indicated water – the beautiful blue Indian Ocean – , and soon we started the descent to Zanzibar while I plotted how I could make a bolt for the toilets leaving Jenny to manage the luggage. I had not realised Jen was in the same predicament.

We staggered painfully into the Zanzibar immigration, recklessly abandoned our suitcases and headed for the nearest cubicles which happily turned out to be toilets. Immigration was a formality as we wrote our names on a scrap of paper without having to show our passports.

Taid was there to meet us, as planned. This was a relief as we were descended on by a large number of zanzibarians all keen to acquire our business. Taid took us to our hotel, Kisiwa House, an old Oman mansion from years long ago. It was very nice and quite comfortable – and air conditioned. A/c is a must as the heat and humidity had reduced me to something not unlike a dripping sponge dishcloth.

Rather than sensibly resting in the bar for the afternoon, we decided on a spice tour. It was interesting, if overpriced, and we were taunted by small boys who made interesting items out of banana leaf in quest of a tip, or two.

We were very glad for a nice comfortable bed, an air conditioned room and a solid rest. In the morning (Sunday) we had a short tour of the old Stone Town which is indeed a most interesting place, steeped in history from all those who have sought to dominate the island: Persians, Omani, Portuguese, the Germans and the British. The stamps of all those people, and of course the original Zanzibar inhabitants are everywhere and it is a very rich experience to wander these narrow winding streets, and bustling markets.

However, fascinating and rich in history as Stone Town is, we had a deep need for some R&R, so late morning, we headed off with Taid in a taxi for the Pongwe Beach Resort. It was about an hour drive north, then across to the Eastern side of the island, then South. The roads in Zanzibar are first class, but there was a rapid deterioration when we reached an unlikely looking track that pointed to Pongwe Beach. Our spirits also sank when the security guard at the resort gate scanned his list of guests and failed to find our names. That was a quickly sorted problem and we were ushered into paradise.

There are 20 bungalows, all just a few steps from a beautiful white sand beach. Our bungalow has a private pool on our patio, and there is a large pool fronting the ocean. We went for a short stroll along the beach then went for a dip in the clear aqua waters of the Indian Ocean. The water was deliciously warm, with tiny little eddies alternating cool and hot. The water lobs gently onto the white sand so it is possible to float gently in the water being massaged by the gently rippling surf. Thus preoccupied with our own self indulgence, our reverie was lightly disturbed by one of the staff bringing out to us a little platter of the sweetest pineapple.

I guess our stay is helped by the fact that it is end of season and the resort is almost deserted. There is a delightful Finnish couple who work in Stone Town and having a weekend break, but apart from that we have the entire staff intent on making our stay memorable.

We may not come back to Canberra. Life is great. Mind you, there are a couple of things worth returning for: the wines and the prawns! Ours are hard to beat.