On safari in Tanzania and R & R in Zanzibar - Jan / Feb 20

I bless the rains down in Africa - not

The female leopard had been lying stretched out along one of the lower branches of the tree, occasionally flicking her tail and raising her head to check all is well. Then she raises her head more determinedly and focuses intently on a small herd of impala, with a couple of young, on the opposite side of the flooded track. After a few minutes she stretches, stands, turns and scrambles down the tree trunk, disappearing into the thick long grass below. Lost to sight, we prepare to move on. About 50 metres ahead, a single black headed heron sits on a small knoll among the grass. The leopard clearly appears passing behind the heron. 20 metres on and her head pops up again. She is slowly tracking towards the last stragglers of the impala and we are directly in the way. She seems to decide to use the car for cover and, emerging from the grass, crouches low by the front wheels, fixed on the one or two impala away from the main herd. There are easy pickings over there, but the flood is in the way and all cats hate water. Suddenly she decides and picks her way stealthily across, to disappear into the grass. Her head appears once, twice, three times before something spooks the impala and they are off in a clatter of hooves. No kill to witness today, but we have just been within a couple of feet of one of the most elusive animals in Africa. And only day four....

Rewind. Arusha, gateway to the northern Tanzania safari circuit, is about 232 miles south of the equator and normally endures the short rains in the autumn, then the long rains in late spring before full summer arrives. Sadly, the message about the dry intervening period hasn't got through and this corner of northern Tanzania appears to be suffering from prolonged unseasonably heavy rain. Our last connecting flight took off from Dar es Salaam in a downpour and although it had stopped by the time we landed, the minibus trip to the first night's lodge up a long unmade track was a white knuckle ride, with several long sideways slides and a couple of occasions when it looked as though we might have to get out and push or trek on through two feet of squelching mud. The original plan was to get a taxi into Arusha for sightseeing, food and supplies, but that was abandoned in favour of a few hours with Kindles on the terrace watching the rain come down.

Political note: Tanzania became independent from Britain in 1961 and then was "ruled" democratically but "with a firm hand" (the emphasis is our driver's) for 30 years by Julius Nyerère. His legacy is a relatively stable and prosperous country in a rather unstable region, the territory having been carved up along straight lines by the European colonial powers with no regard to ethnicity and tribal borders. Although spoken in Tanzania, Swahili is the native language of half the countries in east Africa (and they really do say Hakuna Matata). Tanzania is home to 126 tribes who aren't currently knocking lumps out of each other, unlike some nearby countries; Nyerere's trick was apparently to get representatives from each tribe to intermingle and procreate. The current president is allegedly continuing the firm hand to try and drive out some of the systemic corruption.

 So to animals. For those of us who grew up in the sixties before the widespread availability of long-haul travel, Africa (and pretty much anywhere else ending in "a") was the preserve of the likes of Joy Adamson and Alan Wicker in learned and not so learned documentaries, or even wildlife dramas like Skippy or Daktari, about a bunch of gamekeepers and featuring Clarence, the loveable cross-eyed lion. For kids, Desmond Morris' rather scholarly Zoo Time was leavened by Animal Magic, which presaged Aardman Animations by thirty years by featuring Bristol zookeeper Johnny Morris doing silly voiceovers to film of real animals. Wildlife in the flesh was restricted to zoos like the aforementioned wonderful but traditional Bristol: later to the more adventurous Whipsnade, with its absence of cages and eventually to drive through attractions, like the Lions of Longleat. Highlights of a day out here would be monkeys peeling the vinyl roof off your dad's Ford Cortina, pinching the wing mirrors or pissing on the windscreen. To suddenly come across foreign wildlife in unexpected places is a bit surreal. 

We are batting along a straight well surfaced road at 80kmh when suddenly in the trees not 20 metres away and grazing nonchalantly are a pair of zebras, a giraffe and her calf. Part of the unreality is caused by the scenery, which is not spectacularly "different". OK, it's not Yorkshire or Hampshire, but still vaguely familiar: smooth grassy plains roll gently away to distant hills. And this this is a fairly busy road, with big trucks clattering past at regular intervals. The plains are however punctuated by occasional two metre high termite hills and the circular thatched huts of the Masai tribesmen, who can be seen working the fields or tending their flocks, dressed in brightly coloured robes, the women shaven headed with masses of silver jewellery at their throats.
Then the road pretty much collides with the sheer, steeply wooded cliff of the Great Rift Valley escarpment, the junction of two tectonic plates stretching 4,500 miles from Jordan and Ethiopia in the north to Mozambique in the south. Here, there is water and lots of it. The tarmac ends, the road turns sharply to follow the cliff and  is quickly consumed by rain forest. It is necessary to detune the eyes to sort the animals from the trees: above, the tree canopy is home to a snowstorm of butterflies of every hue and size and the occasional blue monkey; below lurk baboons, elephants and zebras. When the rain forest opens out to a wide plain running down to the shore of Lake Manyara, all the animals coalesce in their own separate groups: gazelle, warthog, wildebeest, elephants; only the giraffes and zebras intermingle as they are of course both versions of a horse designed by a committee.

Onward into the Ngorongoro conservation area and the scenery changes again. Climbing the 600 metre rim of the crater, the track winds through a tunnel of rain forest when in a blink-and-you-miss-it moment, a leopard powers out of the undergrowth and across the road like a guided missile. Our driver is ecstatic that he had us as witnesses or his friends wouldn't have believed it. Little does he know what's in store for tomorrow. Then on through endless plains full of countless gazelles and zebras, before crossing into the scantily shaded savannah of Serengeti, where within the first two miles, we encounter a slumbering lion, lazily lifting his head above the grass. I won't turn this into a natural history essay: just to note though that by and large, the animals don't seem to be bothered by the presence of humans in Japanese 4 x 4s. So we got right up close to a lioness grooming her cubs, a baby monkey learning to climb a tree (he got there in the end), barking hippos and basking crocodiles.

The weapon of choice here appears to be the Toyota Land Cruiser of indeterminate vintage there was a Clarkson-era episode of Top Gear (bring back William Woolard IMHO) in which they tried to kill one by putting it through various silly geographical challenges, culminating in going to sea in the thing. It survived. By reference to Google pictures, we think ours dates from about 1995, which based on a bit of fag packet about average safari length and numbers per year, would mean the 366,000 kilometres showing on the odometer is actually 1.66 million. But all in good order. After 320 bone-jarring km on very unmade roads at fairly high speed, there are surprisingly few rattles and nothing appears to have fallen. Give it a seemingly impossible deeply rutted and flooded track and the Land Cruiser powers through.

And it is being seriously challenged. The rain has now been pretty much relentless for five days. The tarmac stops at the entry to Ngorongoro and it's just mud from there for hundreds of miles to and through the Serengeti. The locals are starting to get worried as the ground is waterlogged and roads are beginning to be swept away. We saw one rockfall today which, if it continues, will close the only route to the National Parks from the south.

We are nearing safari's end and although we have seen plenty of animals in a range of habitats, one box remains unticked: the last of the "big five", the black rhino. Ngorongoro crater is the remains of extinct volcano. The 2,000 ft high caldera rim is intact and encircles a completely flat plain some 20km across. The "4WD only" sign at the top of the descent track is fairly superfluous: it would be impossible to get this far in any other vehicle. The last part of the descent is like an Africa's greatest hits package: elephant, buffalo, wildebeest, warthog, impala, two kinds of gazelle and zebras all with a couple of hundred yards. At the bottom, the roads are truly terrible. Although it didn't rain overnight for the first time in a week, the ground is sodden and most of the roads are under a foot of water. The water itself is not the problem to these high wheelbase vehicles: it's the craters and other hazards it hides. We saw one Land Cruiser on its side in a ditch, another tipped backwards at 45 degrees with its tailgate, and therefore all the occupants' luggage, well underwater. Throughout the journey so far, the sight of a clump of vehicles gathered together has been a good indicator that there's something worth seeing there. Today, the chatter on the CB radio talks of clumps of stranded vehicles. Apparently, two days ago the Pope's envoy to Tanzania got stuck down here, so if he couldn't get out, what chance for the rest of us? Our driver battles gamely on to where a group is gathered to watch a pair of lions slumbering in the sun. There, all the cars are turning round and heading back, as the word is the road's impassable ahead. Then a shout goes out that someone has heard about a route through off road and over the marshy grass and we set off in pursuit. The going gets tougher and tougher, the car grounds twice and almost loses traction. Then with engine screaming and the smell of clutch burning, in a barely controlled half mile power slide throwing up a four foot bow wave of very muddy water, and we are through. And there on the left about 100 yards away are one sleeping, two standing and staring, three black rhino.

Thanks to https://www.shadowsofafrica.com/ and especially to Edwin.

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?

It's very dark. What sounds like the gentle patter of rain drops presaging a storm is actually the irrigation sprinklers kicking in around the tall palms and ferns in these manicured gardens. Despite the two sets of coral reefs in the bay, Indian Ocean waves are still managing to reach the beach in a gentle susurrus. A quiet night on a quiet beach in remote northern Zanzibar, but first...

What a difference a 40-minute flight can make. Down from the cool and sodden plains of the northern game reserves to the sweltering, frenetic bustle of Stone Town, the capital of Zanzibar island. The thermometer says 30 degrees but the humidity is punishing and the sun directly overhead is searing. Anything more than a very gentle stroll, carefully seeking out the shade, requires a change of clothing.

Under the circumstances, it's perhaps just as well that Stone Town doesn't have too much in the way of must-see attractions. There is the Old Fort, the gardens opposite and a number of old colonial buildings, but these look out onto the terminal for the fast ferries from the mainland and onto the container port. This is a real working town and looking somewhat down at heel for that. The real action is in plunging inland onto the warren of narrow streets that criss-cross all the way to the other shore of the isthmus. Here are spice stalls, Arab jewellers, dusty bookshops, noisy hidden schoolrooms and tiny tea rooms, although it's only men sitting round drinking: all the women are about their business. Even among the most sullen groups, a quick passing greeting of "jambo" elicits a reply or at least a hand raised in greeting. In the middle of it all is one of the most malodorous meat and fish markets ever encountered. Just as well the most enticing food encountered is Southern Indian. And therefore vegetarian.

There is also a marked difference in the people. Up in the reserves, practically everyone we encountered is in one way or another involved in tourism and attitudes to visitors are relaxed. Zanzibar on the other hand is over 99% Muslim and the vast majority of the population observe their respective dress codes. White faces are very much in the minority and though there is no sense of threat or disapproval, this feels a long way from the Serengeti. Alcohol is hard to come by and the rhythm of the city is regularly punctuated by the call to prayers, broadcast over very loud tannoys. Which perhaps causes some conflict in the ownership and celebration of Stone Town's most famous son. By some interpretations of Islam, homosexuality is a crime and a sin, so when Farouk Bulsara became Freddie, then Mercury, then an out and out Queen in several senses, he set himself a long way apart from his heritage. Nonetheless, the family home is now his museum, we stayed in the Freddie room in our hotel, which was opposite a bar called Mercury's. The family left the island during unrest in 1964. Freddie met the band in 1970, 1975 was Bohemian Rhapsody, 1985 was Live Aid and by 1991, he was dead. Perhaps appropriately, the only alcohol shop in Stone Town is opposite the Freddie house, so all western vice is concentrated in one place.

Having read some reviews that suggested our next hotel on the deserted east side of the island did not serve alcohol (not strictly true as it turned out), we called in at Alkoshop for some standby supplies. We were encouraged to try some so-called Tanzanian vodka or gin. We opted for gin but Konyagi turned out to be neither, but rather rough white spirit distilled from sugar cane. A bottle of tonic did little to calm it down so it goes on the list of drinks with Hong Thong in Thailand, Mekong Whisky in Cambodia and cashew Feni in India which are best sampled locally (if at all) and which really don't travel. Konyagi did not induce immediate blindness and organ failure, but it might given time.

So from Stone Town to Matemwe on the north east coast of the island: nothing between here and Sumatra, fine coral sand, swaying palms blah blah blah. The road ran out about five miles before our destination so another fairly hairy arrival, but this time no rain and no mud. And for a few days, nothing to do but enjoy the beach, the breeze and the heat. The beach is actually shared with a herd of sleeping cattle in the morning, who amble off mid-afternoon to make way for a bunch of naked black kids performing their ablutions in the sea and a disorganised game of about fifty-a-side football. At the end of the beach just next to our terrace, five lads are busy in the heat building what looks like it's going to be a new bar or restaurant. The breezeblock walls of the kitchen are up, as are the pre-cast pillars and lintels for the drinking and eating terrace. They're now doing the roof, working twenty feet up with no harnesses, safety gear or even shoes, hammering stripped logs together to make the frame. The logs are only cut roughly to size and then trimmed with a hand saw once fitted, potentially giving rise to the comedy cartoon moment when one of them saws off the bit he's standing on.

Now for an awkward bit. The heat during the day is so oppressive that we've taken to going for a walk on the six mile beach at sunrise each morning. Having played with Google Maps last night, we could see a route back through the local village, Matemwe. Shut behind hotel walls, you have no sense of the enormous contrast between how we are living and the life of the locals. Having walked through the slums of Mumbai or some of the more down at heel parts of Phnom Penh, Yangon or rural Sri Lanka is no preparation for this. It's not just the dust and the dereliction, it's the stares. There is the odd greeting of "jambo" but the overarching feeling is that we really should not be here, indulging in some kind of perverted poverty porn. This is the most uncomfortable we have felt anywhere in the third world and gives pause for thought. Arguably, there is nothing we can do about it other than we what we are doing, spending some money and helping the economy grow but it still feels awkward.

As if to labour the point, it seems that the beach resorts have just been shoehorned in between the locals' village and their beach, without any alterations to the pre-existing infrastructure. So since time immemorial, the villagers have let their cattle loose on the beach to sleep and the kids have played (and stooped to poo) naked in the water and we think it's odd. And the roads in and out are still truly dreadful. Having contacted a taxi driver via WhatsApp for the early morning trip to the airport, the Black Dolphin (who also offers snorkelling and boat picnics, obviously) nearly ripped the bottom of his car off getting out. Within five kilometres, however, there is a compound for a Chinese construction company who seem to be putting in a whole network of new roads. The north Europeans came a couple of centuries ago with guns and bibles; this invasion with theodolites and JCBs may be more subtle and longer lived.

And finally, out via Dar es Salaam. I have noted before the new homogeneity of modern capitals. The traffic in Dar may be a bit more shambolic, but otherwise the car showrooms, shopping malls, tower blocks and consultancy offices are only slightly leavened by the tuk-tuks and street food stalls. The residential parts of town are all electric fences, razor-wire topped walls and CCTV. Don't walk about after dark, runs the standard narrative.

Last morning in Tanzania and out for a short walk in search of coffee before the heat becomes too blistering. Obviously, Google Maps doesn't distinguish between types of roads and suddenly and unexpectedly we move from the guarded compounds and shiny Japanese 4x4s of the embassy area and step back into dust and undergrowth. On the right hand side of the track, more high walls and razor wire. On the left, here a plastic bottle dump, there a shack selling used bathroom fittings and beyond, a bunch of people breaking rocks, but still with time to call out "jambo" and "hakuna matata" to these four passing strangers.