"Well if dey didn't stamp ya passport comin in I ain't gonna stamp it now" said the Ugandan immigration woman as I passed by the podium she sat at on my way to the gate my aircraft was to depart from. My kind of country. Aaaah, its all good, lets just say you weren't here, then everyone's happy.
I climbed aboard the prehistoric 737 operated by AirTanzania and was soon on my way east southeast across Lake Victoria, to where the arid northern plains of Tanzania meet it, home to a few of the earth's last mighty hoofed migrations. Soon out the window loomed the massive shadowed hulk of that awe inspiring mountain, Kilimanjaro, though thankfully it's top was shrouded in thunderstorms. I say thankfully because to me, seeing such a massive and mighty landmark such as this from 28,000 feet is just not an adequate way to appreciate its existence. I feel the same way about taking an aerial tour of the Grand Canyon. When you circle thousands of feet above such a thing its size diminishes, and its immensity, its belittling quality, its heavenly grandeur is what draws most people to it; when you climb above you depreciate this sense. After Kilimanjaro faded, but not before my longing to climb up its sides surged again, white beaches appeared underneath and aquamarine waves rolled up and crashed onto them. The waters turned a purplish color, similar to that of the Gulf Stream as we headed 30 miles or so of shore to Zanzibar. Just the name sounds enticing.
The next two and a half days found me struggling to get out of bed in the morning after fitfully sweating thru a night. I made myself enjoy the beautiful island as best I could, but my heart wasn't in it. My thoughts each day swam around upstairs in my head and a thick fog seemed to reign over all thinking. In the evenings I'd go to a bar that westwardly overlooked the Indian Ocean and down a beer watching the sun dip behind ancient looking dhows that still cart spices from the island to the mainland, lacking much in the way of enthusiasm, though still appreciating the beauty. Afterwards I'd head to a nightly fishmarket for some delectable seafood kabobs before being totally spent and heading back to the hostel to sweat thru another evening of no sleep.
I went diving twice the first day along a reef that lies 2 or 3 miles off the coast from the old slave market town. The reef was beautiful, the fish colorful and the water magnificent, but the native dive master assigned to myself and two S. Africans, seemed intent on setting a new 'linear distance traveled on one tank of air' record and I was rushed over coral heads to traverse lengthy barren stretches of wave patterned sand. Upon getting him to slow his marathon dive to something a little bit less tour de france-ish, I began to enjoy the beauty to a larger extent, only to have him repeatedly spoil numerous moments of eye to eye gazing and meditative ponderings with various fish and beautiful coral formations, by banging a rock on the side of his aluminum air cylinder, which resonates quite loudly underwater. I'd swim quickly to his side where he'd point out a sea slug or small stingray sitting in the sand, very much like the other sea slug or small stingray I'd just been looking at in the reef. Having this happen about 10 times I began to ignore him, only to look up once when I heard the loud CLANK -CLANK -CLANK to find him nowhere in sight. Evidently the tour de reef had begun again, unbeknownst to me.
The following day I spent on a 'spice tour' being taken to the island's lush interior, playing with local kids, and sampling all the incredible spices and fruits grown. We dined in a local family's clay floored house on curried Kingfish and rice which was sooooooooo good. After lunch the group piled into the small shock absorber-less van and head for the beach, stopping first at some old slave chambers. The chambers were built in a thicket not too far from a concealed miniature harbor, used to store the freshly gathered human cargo from the mainland until a number accrued sufficient enough to warrant a shipment to the middle east or even America. It was constructed after the Zanzibar sultan was 'persuaded' to outlaw slavery by the British at a time when the island was mainly filled with Muslims of Arabic descent. The Zanzibar based Arab slavers had for years raped the mainland's interior, leaving its vast expanses at the time of the British abolishment, as Livingstone put it, much like a ghost town. The crammed, wet and moldy quarters were...sobering.
Then, the beach, and I was again blissfully drunk in the waves forgetting how miserable I was that morning feeling sick and for the first time yet, just wanting to go home.
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