Tanzania

Our safari in Tanzania was an incredible experience. It was five days of driving, mostly in silence, giving us all a chance to do a lot of thinking. We would drive for hours at a time without talking, just watching the world go by. I had these almost out-of-body experiences at some points, feeling like I was looking down on myself in the truck. It was pretty surreal, but very therapeutic.

Our guide, Tuma, picked us up in Moshi on Christmas Eve morning. We packed our bags into our own personal Toyota Land Cruiser, and then made our way out of the city, toward Lake Manyara. This was our first stop, and we made camp at a campground just outside of the park. Once the truck was unloaded, Tuma drove us into the park for an afternoon game drive. He described Lake Manyara as the “appetizer” to our safari. All I could think driving through the park, was that it was a pretty damn good appetizer.















The day was sunny and warm, and we popped the top of the truck open so we could stand and have a 360 degree view of everything. We saw all sorts of animals, including giraffes, hippo, zebras, monkeys, and my favorite, elephants. Toward the end of our drive we came upon a herd of elephants crossing the road. We stopped to let them pass, watching as the adults led the way while the babies followed close to their mothers. Just as they had crossed the road I saw another young one burst through the bushes, running to catch up. I could almost hear it calling, “Hey wait guys, wait for me!” (with a slight lisp and a high-pitched voice).

We spent the night at the campground, and on Christmas morning we packed up and headed out for the Serengeti. We drove by the Ngorongoro Crater on our way, which we would visit on our return. The word “Serengeti” is a Maasai word meaning “endless plain,” and that it is. I remember thinking on the drive that you can actually feel how old the land is. We stopped for lunch just after entering the park, and climbed up onto a rocky mound to get a view of the plain. It literally stretched out as far as we could see, and then kept going. I had the Lion King soundtrack and a certain few Paul Simon songs on repeat in my head for most of our time there.


The wildebeest migration was going on while we were there, which was amazing to see. Hundreds of thousands of wildebeest could be seen for miles, grazing and moving slowly across the grass. We saw herds that stretched out to the horizon, becoming a dark smear against the ground in the distance. Tuma told us that the herds just kept on going past the point that we could see. The wildebeest graze with zebra, using the zebra’s eyesight while the zebra use the wildebeest for their sense of smell, to stay alert to predators. They would dart across the road in streaming groups, so we spent a lot of time just watching them run by, looking for better areas to graze.


The best part of our first day came as we were driving past a tree, when we realized a lioness was dozing in the branches. Tuma managed to pull up right next to the tree, and I ended up parked about 10 yards from this lion, face to face with her and her claws. It was awesome. She looked right back at us while we snapped pictures, and then put her head back down to continue her nap.


We went for an early morning game drive a couple days later. We saw a leopard and some hyenas who decided they’d prefer not to move out of our way in the road. The highlight of the morning was when Tuma pulled off to the side of the road, asking us if we could see the lions through the tall grass that was growing next to a muddy stream. We looked closely, and saw a couple female lions emerge from the grass. That in itself would have been really cool -- then another lion with three cubs walked out of the grass and crossed the stream. The group walked right by our truck, crossing the road, and made their way to a tree a few yards away from the road. The adults climbed up quickly, and we watched for a while as the cubs tried jumping and clawing their way up the tree. No success. They flopped down on the ground to nap for the day.

We spent our last night on safari camped above the Ngorongoro Crater. We asked Tuma what “ngorongoro” means in Maasai, thinking it would have some romantic origin like “Serengeti.” He said, “You know the bells that cows wear?”… “Yes.”… “You know that sound they make, ‘ngorongorongorongoro’?”… It took us a minute, but then we all burst out laughing. More practical than profound.

Our campsite was full, and it was much colder at the higher elevation. We had our final dinner, and went to get ready for bed. It was dark by that time, and the grass was wet with dew. I rolled up my pant legs to avoid getting wet, and as we were leaving the bathrooms, I noticed what looked like a dry area to walk across. I stepped up onto some concrete, and without looking, took one more step forward…into a knee-deep pool of kitchen run-off water. Nice. I managed to keep my other foot out of the water, and tried to step up onto the grass again. My submerged foot had settled into who knows what at the bottom of the pool, and as I lifted my leg out, I felt my sandal sliding off. I tried to keep it hooked onto my toes, but no dice. My leg came squelching out of the cesspool of nastiness, and all I could do was stare down into the brown, greasy water. My friends didn’t know whether or not to laugh, but one of them grabbed a stick to try to fish out my lost sandal. Again, no luck. At this point we all started laughing and I ran back to the bathroom to wash my leg and dispose of my other sandal. No point in keeping it with the other one drowned.

The next morning we packed our things and descended down into the crater. Tuma told us the crater is about 2,000 feet deep and about 100 square miles in area at the floor. He also explained that animals migrate in and out of the crater using the same road we did to get to the floor. We drove around for a few hours, checking out flamingos in a small lake, some ostrich, and, completing our sighting of the Big Five, rhinos.
We also saw a female lion stalking some zebra and I thought we’d get to see some serious badass lion-hunting, but they caught on to what she was doing and scattered. It began to rain heavily, and fog settled into the crater as we climbed up the road that led up and out. Our last vision of the crater was through rain-smeared windows as our Land Rover groaned up the muddy, red road.

Zanzibar: Time on the Island

The three days we spent on the island were pretty idyllic. Beautiful, screen-saver-worthy beaches, fresh mango at breakfast, warm blue water. Nice, right? It was perfect for me, mentally and physically, to go die on a beach for a few days. I read, laid in the sun, and rested. We went on a spice tour one morning, which ended up being very interesting. Even better, the lunch they served us was delicious. Pilau rice (rice spiced with cinnamon, ginger, coriander, among others) with coconut sauce and a tomato sauce, and then hunks of fresh mango for dessert. They served us chai tea made with spices from their farm. It was perfect.

That afternoon we went to Stone Town, where our driver magically procured a guide to take us around the city on a tour. Our guide’s name was Striker and he literally appeared out of thin air at our door. Striker was a native Stone Townian and after the formalities were taken care of, he led us off on a walking tour of his hometown. We started in the fruit markets, and made our way through the narrow streets, almost constantly shadowed by tall buildings on either side. Stone Town got its name from its buildings, all of which are made of…stone. There is a law stating that any building in the city must be constructed out of stone, no other material.



















We walked to a church/museum that had been built on the site of the former slave market in the city. Once inside, we were taken by another guide down below the church to see where slaves had been kept…stored is a more appropriate word…while awaiting their fate on the market. The traders would pack over 100 people into these cells, which had a central aisle that ran between a raised, semi-circular platform on which people be crammed. We sat on this platform while our guide explained the trading process, and got a look out of the cell’s only window -- a sliver that had been cut out of the wall no more than a foot tall and a few inches wide. And this was the wider version they had enlarged from the previously smaller, original window.



















From the holding cells, we walked to the church and explored the inside. One funny story involves the columns (pictured) that were erected by local workers. The architect wasn’t on site, but had given instructions to finish getting the columns in place. The workers accidentally placed the columns upside down, with the base supporting the ceiling and the top resting firmly and securely on the floor. I snapped a picture for those art and architecture buffs, thinking you’d enjoy that. Our guide told us about Dr. Livingstone’s connection to the church, and to Stone Town, explaining the plaque dedicated to Livingstone that hangs high on the wall next to the pews. He told us the story of how Livingstone had died while traveling with his two best friends, and they had carried his body all the way back to Stone Town. He said that a few years ago he had been explaining the story to a group of Brits when one of the women broke down crying. Obviously bewildered, he asked what was wrong and it turned out that she was one of Livingstone’s descendants and had been shocked, and very moved to hear the story. Small world.

We left the museum and church, meeting Striker and making our way back through the streets. He pointed out the unique architectural features of the buildings, the Indian and Arabic influences on the finely decorated wooden doors we passed. We ended the tour back at the water, looking out at the harbor. Striker said his goodbyes, and left us to wander around for ourselves a bit. We had an incredible dinner on the beach, and then realized there was a nightly food market that was set up in the park by the water. We walked over to find endless tables and stands that had been set up, with men cooking all different kinds of meats, breads, roti, vegetables, pancakes with bananas and chocolate sauce. It was unbelievable. We made our way through the crowd of people who had turned out to eat, stopping for a fried pancake with banana and chocolate. After eating our faces for the 4th time that day, we fell into our cab and drove back to Paje. What a day.



Our last day was another wake up, eat mango, lay on the beach day. I thoroughly enjoyed it. There was, however, the small detail of booking a flight back to Dar. We considered taking the ferry from Stone Town, but logistics would have been a nightmare. So, I tried to give my old pal Robert a call with the help of our friend, Nicolas, at the front desk. I showed Nicolas my plane ticket with Robert’s number. He looked at it quickly, and then told me he would take care of it; rather, he would speak with a guy who had a phone (out at the moment), hopefully there would be a flight available (“there is probably a flight tomorrow”), and there would be no problem! This fell on very American ears. Trained by my dad to book flights with online reminders up until takeoff and to arrive at the airport hours early, I was a little wary of this plan.

I ended up speaking with Annika, our hostess for all intents and purposes. She assured me she would call the travel agent and arrange something. Fast forward to late afternoon…Check in with Annika and no news yet…“I will speak with her tonight and let you know…” Okay, dinner rolls around -- no news. I was told to check in with her the next morning.

Morning comes, and I walked as quickly as I could to Annika’s office, trying not to look too eager or too strung out about not having secured our flights yet. As I walked in, she looked up at me and it was like it took a minute for her to remember why I was busting down the door at 8. Ohhh -- that flight. Well, it turns out our travel lady had no generator the night before, and with the power outage island-wide, no dice on the tickets yet. At this point, I could have pulled a major American and flipped out. However, I kept my head (be proud of me), smiled, and said I would check in again after breakfast.



Breakfast over. Annika had good news. We had tickets waiting for us at the travel agent’s. She handed me a medium-sized envelope addressed to the agency and, holding it against her chest, looked me in the eye and said, “Give this to the lady at the agency.” For a second I wondered if it was something illegal or awesome like that, but then I snapped back into reality (though it was a bit dramatic the way she gave her instructions). She then mentioned that the tickets were cash-only -- shocker. We loaded up our van and headed off to an ATM to withdraw thousands of shillings once again. Money in hand, we drove back into Stone Town and the driver pulled over near a cluster of old buildings near the water. No one said anything, and there was no sign for a travel agent in sight. Just as I was asking if we were going to the agency, the driver turned around to ask us the same thing. He assumed we knew the white building to our left with no markings was our destination.

Out of the van, into the building, envelope handed over to a nice woman, who became even friendlier when we forked over the cash. Here’s the best part -- she proceeded to tear a corner off an add for “Spanish Dancer Dive,” whatever that is, and then write our names and the name of the airline with the flight number on the back. She handed it over and I managed to keep a straight face until we got outside. At that point, our plane was scheduled to take off in 20 minutes. I remained surprisingly calm, having given myself over to the fact that things would happen and I had zero influence over them. Better to sit back and enjoy. We arrived at the airport 5 minutes to takeoff time, managed to check our bags and get through security (really just a matter of walking through the right door). Passengers were given umbrellas to use when they ran across the tarmac to the little 12-seater -- except us. When we got to the door and asked if we could use one, the answer was a shake of the head (no). Sweet. Mad dash to the plane, damp ride back to Dar, and, finally, got on the plane to Moshi.

Zanzibar: Getting there...

So begin the stories from Tanzania and Zanzibar. I’ll do it in a couple installments so you don’t go blind from looking at the computer screen for too long.


We left for Zanzibar the night after that 3rd break-in, which put a bit of a damper on our excitement for the trip. It was a relief to be out of that house, though, and once we got on the plane to Joburg, we didn’t talk much about what had happened. The break-in remained in my mind throughout our trip. I had moments of real panic, wanting to talk about it, but at the same time not wanting to bring it back into the light, not wanting to analyze and wonder about it. That’s all I’ll say about it in relation to our holiday, because our trip was a beautiful, incredible experience, turning out to be very therapeutic.

We flew from Joburg to Dar es Salaam, an uneventful flight until we reached customs in Dar. We were asked for our passports and 100 USD, which we definitely didn’t have on us. I hadn’t seen US dollars since August. Of course we couldn’t pay by card, so the customs officer called a guard over to escort us to an ATM. The ATM was located outside the building. Picture this: three white, oblivious Americans, laden with backpacks and handbags, sweaty and tired, fresh off the plane, following a guard outside the airport to withdraw tens of thousands of Tanzanian shillings. From the ATM we ambled on over to the Bureau de Change to exchange our recently acquired TZ shillings for some good old American dollars. We’re pretty certain the guy at the counter had no idea what the exchange rate was, but we handed over the shillings, and got nice, crisp 100 dolla bills in return.

Our chaperone escorted us back through the doors, away from TZ soil and delivered us to our less-than-charming customs officer. We handed over our passports and said goodbye to our Benjamins, and waited a half hour while they processed our visas (this involved photocopying our passport photos and cutting/pasting that picture onto a visa to be stamped into the booklets). We grabbed our passports and made our way out into Tanzania for the second time that day, looking for our ride to the ferry to Zanzibar. I had previously communicated with a woman from the hotel we booked and arranged for someone to meet us at the airport. I assumed she knew that when I said we’d be arriving at DAR, I meant Dar es Salaam, not Zanzibar airport. Not the case.

We were wandering around at the arrivals gate, searching for a sign with my name on it, when a man came up to us and bluntly said, “You are going to Zanzibar, yes? You will not make the ferry. You must book a flight.” How he knew what our plan was, and that we were stranded I have no idea. He hurried us into an office where another man named Elijah set to work on getting us tickets to the next flight to Zanzibar, leaving in 45 minutes. We just sat there, stunned by the air conditioning and cold bottled water they offered us.
Elijah convinced us flying to Zanzibar was our best (and only realistic option) at that point in the day, so we set to work booking tickets. When I say “book” I mean we watched as Elijah filled out ready-made airline tickets by hand, and then we made another trip to the ATM to withdraw a few more shillings (200,000 to be exact) to pay for the tickets. Cash only. Yessah.

Tickets = booked. Taxi to domestic airport = ripoff, but successful. We unloaded our bags at the domestic airport and were guilt-tripped into tipping everyone who helped us. One man led me into an office and informed me that I needed to pay an insurance fee of 5,000 shillings per person. I highly doubted this was true, but what was the point in arguing it? He also gave me his name (Robert) and number (written on the back of my plane ticket) in case we were interested in flying back from Zanzibar. He promised a great price.

We boarded a 12-seater on the runway and enjoyed a smooth, 30 minute flight to the island. I freaked a bit when I realized I had to look at the control panel of the plane (memories of a less-than-smooth trip to and from Green Turtle Cay a few years ago). I was relieved to land, collect my bags, and see my name on a sign for our hotel, the Paje Ndame. Our driver loaded us into a van and we drove about an hour to the hotel. Zanzibar had lost power on the entire island about two weeks prior to our arrival, and it remained without power during our stay, so the drive got very dark very quickly. It was nice, though, to drive through the darkening jungle roads with the warm breeze blowing through the windows.