World Wittering

Morning came in Moshi and we decided to start the day with a relaxing massage to rid our bodies of the aches and pains of the mountain. Sadly, the masseur was a grumpy deaf mute and the massage was mediocre at best. Shrugging our shoulders, we took a ride into Moshi in search of cafe latte and t’internet, eventually finding both and researching our next destination, the mystical archipelago of Zanzibar.

Back at the hotel, we enquired as to the readiness of our laundry. Perhaps we shouldn’t have been shocked, after the previous day’s debacle of having all our dirty washing emptied onto the reception floor to be counted, when they brought dozens of carrier bags of laundered clothing through and asked us, hopefully, to see if we could identify our belongings. After several more trips to find anything that might have been left in the machine, the task was complete and we were scratching our heads in amazement – could this really be the best hotel in Moshi?

We rendezvoused with Nick and Sarah at the pool and then made our way back into town for a pleasant dinner with fizzy wine to celebrate our engagement and then decided to move on to a brand new trendy bar for cocktails. The day was summed up perfectly when we reached the bar to find an empty cavernous room devoid of all atmosphere. Still, they had mojitos on the menu, perhaps just one and then back to the hotel eh?

The bar tender gave us a winning smile and set about mixing the mojitos. After a few minutes I had to step in as they didn’t seem to bear any resemblance to the drink I know and love. The mixologist referred me to the menu and I was amazed to find that the Moshi incarnation of, possibly, the world’s finest drink, contained none of the traditional ingredients. We made our excuses and left, retiring to the hotel bar for some ludicrously priced gin and tonics and then said our goodbyes to Nick and Sarah, saying we’d meet them in Stone Town the next day – they would be flying, while we were travelling, you guessed it, by ridiculously early local bus.

Once again, we piled onto the bus at an ungodly hour, wedged ourselves into the inadequate seats and settled in for the journey. Fortunately, it was only around one o’clock when we reached Dar Es Salaam’s bus station. We jumped in a cab and headed for the ferry port, arriving with only minutes to spare before the next departure. This provided a tout with the perfect opportunity to hurry me along through the ticket buying process and fleece me in the currency conversion.

Still, we were ahead of schedule and on the boat to the paradise island of Unguja, the largest island of the arhipelago. After a couple of hours of only moderately turbulent crossing, we were disembarking in Stone Town, capital of Zanzibar.

As luck would have it, we immediately bumped into Nick and Sarah and they took us to the quaint hotel they’d found before we retired to Mercury’s bar, a tribute to the island’s most famous son, Freddie, for a refreshing beverage and a gorgeous sunset. They confirmed that their flight had been pleasant and they’d had the bonus of outstanding views as they flew over Kilimanjaro.

After a wash and brush up we had a wander around the wonderful, maze like streets of Stone Town. The Arab influence brought to mind the medina of Marrakech or the similarly moorish alleyways of Cadiz, but with a more decrepit feel, the buildings seeming neglected and decayed. We ended up at the seafront and a wonderful night market, the stalls piled high with fresh seafood from that day’s catch. We made our selections, haggled over the price and then stood back as the tasty treats were barbecued on the spot. Devouring the platefuls greedily, we all agreed it was some of the finest seafood we’d tasted.

Time to move on, and we went in search of a friendly bar, eventually stumbling across a wonderful local establishment on the water’s edge, the Starehe Club, where we were treated to excellent reggae selections, ice cold beers and friendly rastafarian company. Around midnight we made our excuses, stopped to pick up essential supplies, and then made our way to bed.

Next morning we did some general faffing – it was imperative that Sarah load up with carvings and fabrics and Nick bought a garish comedy African shirt - and then took a minivan an hour or so up to the north west coast and the wonderful golden sandy beach of Kendwa. We were soon ensconsed, though not all together, Nick and Sarah in a lovely pair of sea view thatched bungalows, Lee and I in a woven palm leaf hut on the beach without power or running water.

We hooked up in a pleasant beach shack restaurant and ate yet more succulent fish and then retired to the hammocks to soak up the sun, convinced we’d found paradise.

And that’s pretty much how we spent the next couple of days, doing little but laze, eat and drink on the beach, taking a sunset boat ride up the coast to the next town for a pleasnt seafood barbecue at a restaurant whose toilets were, slightly worryingly, up the street and down a dark back alley – necessitating an escort whenever the girls needed to go.

Nick and I went diving for a day to the Mnemba Atoll, exploring crystal clear waters and encountering hundreds of brightly coloured fish, enormous coral formations and, best of all, several turtles. Sarah came along for the trip planning to snorkel but deciding the sea was too rough, a view I shared, as I hung over the side on the way home, emptying the contents of my stomach into the, now not so crystal clear, water.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, despite Lee’s last minute (East 17 style) pleadings for them to stay another day, Nick and Sarah bade us farewell and headed back to Stone Town for a final evening’s partying at the reggae club before flying home the next afternoon. We were genuinely sorry to see them go after they’d proved such good company during the previous weeks. Lee and I had been concerned as to how we would cope with travelling with other people in tow, but it had never been less than a pleasure. Lee wasn’t even that disappointed to lose her bet about the two of them becoming more than friends.

Still, there was no time to be downcast as we had a packed programme to attend to. The next morning we moved to the other end of the beach to a villa with running water, though still no power, for the bargain price of $12 a night with breakfast, less than half the price of our banda hut – the reason? It was still being built of course.

We spent the next ten days or so adhering to a punishing schedule of rising around eleven am for breakfast, wandering along the beach to a vacant hammock or lounger, reading a book or listening to music, fending off continuous offers of massage, hair braiding and henna painting, romantic strolls, classically beautiful sunsets and dinners in any of the half dozen beach bars, all washed down with plenty of thirst quenching beverages. Bliss.

Eventually, however, it was time to go exploring. We caught the local, overloaded, dala dala back to Stone Town and set about organising an east coast trip. We soon hooked up with a friendly local, Mohammad, who agreed to hire us an old school Vespa at a ridiculously cheap rate. As luck would have it, he also had a hotel which was still in the process of being completed, we decided to stay two nights at a more than reasonable price.

Having explored Stone Town further, roamed the markets for beachwear and picked up other essential supplies, partaken of more delicious seafood and another evening at the reggae bar, it was time to head off again – this time south and eastwards.

We loaded up the bright red Vespa with the minimum of gear and zoomed off through wild forests and villages of mud brick, palm thatched huts. After a few hours, we reached Jambiani, a sprawling hamlet with a beach of pure white powdery sand. Here we were fortunate once more, a couple on the beach tipping us off about the wonderful Kiddo’s cafe at the northern end of the village.

We searched it out and were delighted to meet rasta Kiddo and his German partner, Liza. They had a small house on the beach with an adjoining guestroom and first floor cafe with panoramic views over the turquoise Indian Ocean. It was like staying in the smallest boutique hotel in the world, gorgeously furnished and decorated with Liza’s home made shell creations, and an organic breakfast including Kiddo’s home made peanut butter and preserves which you could almost feel doing you good.

We spent the days lazing, reading and wandering up and down the almost deserted beach and in the evenings the owner of a local restaurant would bring us more delicious traditional seafood dishes to try. We probably would have stayed longer than three days but the Vespa parked by the gate was a constant reminder that there was plenty more of the island to see. 

We followed the road northwards, through Paje and Bweju, here taking to the sand and riding the scooter up the beach to get a closer look. By midday we’d reached the end of the road, literally, at the tip of the Michamvi Peninsula but hadn’t found anywhere that felt right to stay. We decided instead to retrace our steps and head for the main road up the centre of the island before striking east again to hit the coast further north.

All was going swimmingly until a few kilometres outside the fishing port of Chwaka when the trusty Vespa shuddered to a standstill and refused to restart. I felt such a fool, I’d actually believed the fuel guage when it said we still had a quarter of the tank left. This situation might be a nightmare in “developed” countries and necessitate a long walk to a petrol station. Fortunately, in Zanzibar, as in most of the places we’d visited, there are unofficial petrol sellers every few hundred metres. We raised a good laugh from the gathered locals as we wheeled the inert machine to the nearest fuel purveyor, but were on our way again in minutes with enough gas to reach Chwaka and a proper filling station.

Indeed, we pulled in to fill up about two minutes later, recounted the hilarious story of our breakdown to the attendant and then jumped back on to set off for Pongwe. The Vespa steadfastly refused to start.

We spent ages watching as passersby took it in turns to try to get the thing moving, the local police from a nearby road block taking keen interest and repeatedly stating the obvious “it’s not working”, yeah, thanks.

After about an hour a man in an islamic kaftan succeeded in firing the motor and then disappeared into the distance on what we hoped was a test drive. He reappeared after about ten minutes, we sighed with relief and paid him the, quite reasonable, five dollars he requested.

We struck onwards, the sky was beginning to bruise and we needed to secure lodgings. At Pongwe there were only three hotels, all either full or vastly overpriced and unpleasant. We decided to risk carrying on, hoping to reach the next village, Kiwengwa, before sunset as the scooter lights, inevitably, were inoperative.

Lady luck smiled on us and we pulled up outside a big resort hotel in Kiwengwa just as the final crimson rays were disappearing below the horizon. Then lady luck decided she didn’t like us anymore – the hotel declared they were full, although we suspected they just didn’t like the look of us, and the scooter refused to start again.

A friendly Masai warrior (the favoured security option of your discerning Zanzibar hotel) offered to show Lee some other accommodation options while I tried to convice the hotel to let me leave the Vespa in their car park overnight. They refused. When Lee eventually reappeared there was good news and bad news – all the hotels in the village were full, but she had managed to negotiate for us to spend the night with a local family.

We wheeled the useless machine down to the house in question and were shown into the bedroom of the family’s teenage son, adorned with pictures of the Juventus football team and a quite distasteful poster above the bed of a semi-clothed couple engaged in a full on snog and enclosed in a love heart. I was made up.

We had a barely edible dinner in a deserted restaurant across the road (if I had a dollar for every meal we’ve had in an empty restaurant…) and then made our way to what we thought looked like a happening local bar. It wasn’t, we had a beer and went to bed.

Mohammad arrived to repair the Vespa next morning and we were soon on our way again, his reassurances that the problem would not recur almost convincing. We continued north and reached the village of Matemwe where we found yet another deserted beach of the whitest sand yet. We checked out some hotel options and were beginning to fear the worst again as they were all full, but then we stumbled across an inviting beachfront villa. What do you know? not only were they empty, they were carrying out some repairs and so we were able to negotiate yet another radically reduced price. We had the pick of the elegant bedrooms, a sumptuous lounge and dining area with satellite TV and yet another mock-Tudor bar area, a swimming pool and terrace overlooking the sea. Not only that, but the price included all meals and a staff of six to cater for our every whim. Ideal.

We settled in immediately, watching Manchester City beat United, which almost made up for the Liverpool Chelsea match not being on – it was never a penalty.

Indeed, we settled in so well that we treated ourselves to three nights of luxury, justified by the fact that it rained each day, we lounged on the enormous sofa watching movies, reading and tucking into the bar.

All too soon it was time to leave, we saddled up the Vespa again and motored our way back to Stone Town where we checked into a half-decent hotel, eschewing our budget option as we’d been so spoilt by the previous days’ luxury. Lee booked us on to a Spice Tour the following day where we joined a motley bunch of package tourists trooping around a plantation being given the opportunity to purchase various spice related products, thrilling. Afterwards we got a quick look at the Mangapwani caves – where slaves were kept in hiding in squalid conditions for weeks before being loaded aboard boats in secret after the trade was abolished. Then it was a short walk down to the beach for an hour or so of sun before heading back to the bus for town. The path back from the beach had, unfortunately, become infested with huge viscious ants and we had to run the gauntlet, no one escaping without at least several bites.

That evening, we splashed out on a special romantic seafood barbecue at one of the posher hotels, just outside town. This had a lively sports bar where I was able to catch the second half of a game before we were shown to our table on the beach. Alas, the food didn’t live up to its billing and we found ourselves, once again, amongst the package holiday punters and feeling out of place.

Lee decided that the best way to make up for the previous day’s mediocrity was to take a small dhow over to nearby Prison Island. I was less than enthusiastic but we clambered aboard the boat and set off for the hour’s journey. On the way we had a bit of a falling out and then spent a miserable hour or so stomping around the island not talking to each other. The only thing of real interest to see was a collection of rare giant tortoises. We wandered into the enclosure, read the sign instructing us not to feed or touch the tortoises, the keeper handed me a handful of rotten cabbage and then ushered us through to where a group of Scandinavian children were terrorising the poor timid creatures. It has to be said though, they were impressive creatures, the oldest ones absolutely enormous and, once they caught sight of the rotten cabbage leaves, surprisingly nimble. And incredibly smelly. We made our peace and got back in the boat.

That evening we happened upon a hidden gem of a restaurant in the Stone Town backstreets, the Sambusa Two Tables. We were ushered into the anonymous looking building by the elderly proprietor and taken upstairs, through his living room where his wife was watching TV and into a conservatory housing aforesaid two tables.

We shared the table with a posh couple from Notting Hill (“I can’t stand Carnival, so many hoi poloi”), an Italian couple – who sat quietly as the Lee and the two Londoners launched into a tirade decrying the large Italian resort hotels which dot the coastline – and a Canadian Moroccan chap who I can barely remember. Lee and I tucked into the bag of beers we’d brought, the owner didn’t seem to mind despite being it being a muslim establishment, as we were treated to a selection of delicious local delicacies.

The following day, while Lee wandered the streets photographing her favourite bits of Stone Town, I went off for another day’s diving, this time to a couple of wrecks about twenty minutes offshore. The first dive was to a depth of thirty metres, my deepest yet, to an intact rusting steel hull teeming with thousands of fish. The second wreck was more spread out over the sea bed, an eerie sight,but, once again, with plenty of marine life inhabiting the nooks and crannies.

I hooked up with Lee again on the quayside and we caught a dala dala back up to Kendwa. Half an hour or so out of town Lee remembered she’d left a disk of photos in a computer in the post office. Before I could say anything she’d jumped out of the dala dala and said she’d see me in Kendwa later.

The sun was just starting to set as I walked down the kilometre long lane to the beach. I reached our little villa where the manager, Juma, was expecting us, more than a little concerned that Lee would have to make the same walk in the darkness. I grabbed a bite to eat and then sat in the room waiting and imagining the worst, totally needlessly as she walked into the room a few minutes later.

We quickly slipped back into our previous Kendwa routine and, after a couple of days, it was the night of the full moon party, the reason for our return. The Kenwa Rocks bar lived up to its name with dancing spilling over onto the beach as a local DJ treated us to the latest Bongo Flavas, hip-hop and R’n'B, none of which I was able to dance to, though this didn’t stop Lee forcing me onto the dancefloor to shuffle about self-consciously amongst the gyrating, and fragrant, local men who were gathered in a large circle and taking it in turns to show of their best moves in the centre. Highlight of the night for me was when the DJ suffered some sort of seizure and played Pulp’s Common People, immediately clearing the floor of all but a small number of white men of a certain age. I was sat on the sidelines sipping a mojito and so was spared the embarassment.

After wobbling off to bed in the early hours, we spent a recovery day on the beach swinging in hammocks, Lee nursing a terrible hangover which I seemed to have escaped entirely. We had a final fish dinner at our favourite restaurant and then spent a few hours sat around a large campfire, staring at the stars and reflecting on what a fantastic time we’d had. We got talking to a Canadian girl - who filled us in on the shocking news that a local man had been murdered at the party – and a couple of well-to-do English girls, one of whom informed us she was an artist and then sat squirming with embarassment as Lee, once more under the influence, interrogated her as to the style of her paintings, her influences etc. As the clock struck two, we stumbled back to the villa for the last time.

We had a final couple of hours on the beach the next morning and then shared a minivan back to Stone Town, killed a final few hours in the shops, collected a painting we’d commissioned from a local artist to mark our engagement, and then made our way to the port.

We were booked on the overnight ferry to Pemba, the smaller, less developed island about 50km to the north of Unguja, Zanzibar’s main island. We arrived in, what we thought, was plenty of time, a couple of hours before departure, to find the boat teeming with people. Failing to learn our lesson from the Lake Victoria ferry debacle, we’d passed up the chance of a cabin and opted for a seating ticket. By the time we’d boarded the only place to sit was the top deck with no seating and no cover. It looked like a total schoolboy error.

We found a secluded spot, tucking our bags beneath the blades of an enormous spare propellor lashed to the deck and huddled against it, wrapping ourselves in Masai blankets to escape the wind while a couple of locals tried to befriend/annoy us. As we got under way, the huge moon and brightly shining stars illuminated the sea and showed it to be as calm as a pond – perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

It was all going swimmingly well until about 3am when it started to rain. My heart sank and we desperately tried to find a way of keeping ourselves and our bags dry. Fortunately, the rain let up after only a few minutes and we were able to settle back down to sleep and, before long, we were pulling into the harbour at Mkoani.

We grabbed our bags and joined the throng heading for the gangplank. It was absolute chos with no quarter being given by anyone, as if everyone was trying to escape a sinking ship but without the women and children first rule. Lee saw an old man get pushed to the ground and slapped the perpetrator. We pushed, shoved and finally got onto the gangplank, a treacherously smooth board with small pieces of battening nailed to it instead of steps. The trick now was to push back against those behind so as not to fall down the gangway to the dock below. We managed to negotiate this and joined the crowd on the jetty jostling towards the exit. Our two young friends from the crossing were stuck to us like limpets, determined that the hours spent befriending/hassling us wouldn’t go to waste and they could secure a tip for assisting us.

As luck would have it, I’d emailed ahead to a guesthouse and the proprietor, Ali, was waiting for us with a sign saying “Gim & Lee”. We identified ourselves, not hard being the only mzungus on board, and he guided us through the hordes and out of the port. Our two friends were incensed, following Ali and harangueing him in swahili, their night’s work had gone to waste.

We followed Ali up the road to his guesthouse, chose a room and went straight to bed, rising only in the afternoon. We spent the remainder of the day planning the forthcoming week’s activities, took a walk round the village and then watched another glorious sunset from the hammocks on Ali’s terrace. After dinner we decided on an early night, no doubt influenced by our decision to have a week off the booze.

We had an early start the next day, taking a boat arranged by Ali out to Misali, a paradise island and marine conservation area famed for its diving. The boat anchored off “Coral Mountain” and we spent a wonderful hour or so snorkelling, seeing almost as much fish life and brightly coloured coral as I had on my scuba dives.

Next, we were dropped on one of the island’s beaches for a spot of lunch before following a trail across the island, through thick forest, to see a cave renowned among the locals for its voodoo properties – it just looked like a hole in the ground to me.

We eventually exited the trees at a stretch of pure virgin white powdery sand without a soul in sight, stretched out the Masai blanket and soaked up the silence. After a few minutes of sitting still, the beach started to come to life as dozens of crabs emerged cautiously from their burrows and what we’d taken as just shells sprouted legs and turned out to be hermit crabs. We amused ourselves for a while tormenting these poor creatures, who couldn’t move as fast as their burrowing cousins and elude our clutches, but no permanent harm was done.

Making our way back to the other side of the island, there was just time to follow a snorkel trail, mere metres off the beach, seeing sponges as well as the colourful fish and coral outcrops.

Without the lure of alcohol, we retired straight to bed upon our return. In the morning, Lee informed Ali that we’d changed our mind about a second, expensive, excursion up the coast to Watamu, site of a luxury resort complex. This was the point at which Ali’s attitude toward us changed completely and he stopped being the friendly, helpful host, eager to help and began to resemble none other than Mr Phuc, our Vietnamese nemesis of months previous.

We decided instead to wander down to the port and negotiated a deal directly with some fishermen to take us to Kwate island, a 45 minute boat ride from the harbour. The boat moored a hundred metres or so from the shore where the water was too shallow to continue and we scrambled across the reef to the island. We had the whole place to ourselves and spent a peaceful few hours wandering along the shore and relaxing on the beach. Once more, after a few minutes of stillness, the crabs started to emerge from their holes and we noticed for the first time that the sound we’d taken for birds cooing was in fact coming from them. It was mesmerising and, in the distance, the serene picture was completed by a variety of wading birds coming down to feed. Paradise indeed, but, all too soon, time to return to our bunch of friendly (Liverpool supporting) fishermen and head back to Mkoani. Back at the guesthouse, Ali informed us he was taking another guest up the coast the next day and we could get a lift too – for a price – we agreed and then turned in.

We clambered into the minivan after breakfast with a young South African and motored, through Chake Chake, the largest town on the island, to Kigomasha Peninsula in the far north and a guesthouse at Verani beach, a recommendation from Ali. We didn’t like it much and so we drove on to Manta Reef Lodge, a very fancy resort on the northern tip of the peninsula,and way too expensive for our budget. Ali was losing patience, obviously wanting to offload us. As we followed the road back, we came to Ngezi forest, another conservation area and habitat for black ververt monkeys. Ali asked if we wanted to stop and take the tour, we said yes and the South African said he would wait in the van – this wound Ali up even more and the penny dropped, he was charging the other guy for a tour of the island and so didn’t want to be hanging around waiting for us if we were the only ones wanting to see the forest. We paid for the forest tour and he started muttering something about being quick as he didn’t want to wait. Lee was straight in there “Is something wrong Ali, do you want some more money? I don’t understand, you don’t seem very happy”. Ali immediately backed down, clearly not wanting the South African to realise we hadn’t paid the full tour price.

We strolled through the forest with a guide we coudn’t understand and who absolutely reeked, nevertheless we took the opportunity to ask as many questions and take as many photographs as we could. By the time we got back to the van an hour later Ali could barely conceal his rage. We asked if we could be dropped off in Wete, a town on the way back, Ali said this wouldn’t be possible and that he’s drop us somewhere we could get a dala dala instead. Ta very much.

After a brief stop at Tumbe fishing village to watch the catch being landed and auctioned off on the beach, including seeing huge manta rays being carved into slices, we were deposited at a junction and pointed in the right direction. We didn’t have to wait long, jumping into yet another ridiculously overcrowded dala dala for the half hour journey to town.

We wandered about and then found a lovely little guesthouse run by the equally lovely Mr Sharif. We assured him that, yes, we definitely were married and then set off out again to grab some street food. The next stop was the dilapidated local cinema which was showing a Bollywood movie. We made our way into the cavernous auditorium and found a space in one of the rows of hard wooden flip down seats. The movie was hilarious, at least ten years old and featuring outlandish comedy fashions and hairstyles, typical plot involving action, romance and comedy, together with the obligatory large scale musical numbers. Best of all, it was in hindi and we had no idea at all what was going on – one of the best night’s entertainment we’d had in ages, not at all spoiled by the two power cuts.

Back at the guesthouse, sleep was elusive as our ears were assaulted by what sounded like a muezzin’s all night rave up, augmented by snoring from the floor above like rolling thunder.

We rose early and took another pair of dala dalas back to Konde, a village we’d passed through the day before, where we negotiated to hire a couple of bicycles. We took an hour or so to ride the 10km, through Ngezi forest, to Vumawimbi beach, constantly waving and shouting hello to passers by and being joined by a selection of other cyclists keen to practise their English, all of whom were incredibly friendly, but a little dull as they always asked the same questions.

The beach was yet another empty strip of paradise white powder and the sea was refreshingly cool to swim in after the long cycle. Soon it was time to turn back, we cycled a way down the beach and caused a stir amongst some local kids, then rejoined the path back to Konde and the stream of people wanting to know our names and where we came from. After dropping off the bikes we took another couple of dala dalas back to Wete, grabbed some more street food and retired for an early night.

Next day, we headed south to Chake Chake, a rather disappointing town with little to offer. On the poitive side, we found a hotel with a TV and spent the afternoon lazing beneath the fans watching trashy movies. A powercut sent us out in search of a restaurant with a generator and the power returned just as we were finishing our meal, allowing us to get back to the TV.

Determined to make more of our final full day on the island, we were up early and took a succession of dala dalas into the sticks, ending up at the fishing village of Kiwani. We took shelter from a sudden rain storm with a group of fishermen and struck up a conversation with an old man who we couldn’t understand and who couldn’t understand us. Nevertheless, we got on like a house on fire. As the rain stopped we negotiated a price and got into our smallest boat yet, a dugout canoe with a pair of outriggers. Our two fisherman guides paddled us through the mangroves beneath a merciless midday sun. I decided to treat them to some music and dug out the ipod and speakers, introducing them to Jimi Hendrix’s Purple Haze, SL2 – On A Ragga Tip, Basement Jaxx – Jump N Shout, Candi Staton – Young Hearts Run Free, Led Zeppelin – Whole Lotta Love, Michael Jackson – Beat It and, finally, Ned’s Atomic Dustbin’s classic Kill Your Television. They just ignored me and kept paddling.

Our destination was another island, Shamiani. They pulled up the canoe, we disembarked and followed a path through dull scrub and bushes, it was all a bit disappointing. However, after half an hour or so, we reached the far edge of the island and, cor blimey guvnor, a deserted white powdery sand beach with crystal clear turquise sea, oh yes indeed, stop me if you’ve heard this one before… We sat about for a while, took some pictures and soaked it all up, then made our way back to the canoe. Back on Pemba, we hiked a way up the road, chatting to the locals and being followed by a crowd of over-excited children shouting “Good Morning”, to which we replied “Good AFTERNOON” to no avail. Then it was back into the cramped confines of another two dala dalas and soon we were in Mkoani once more.

We had a pleasant dinner at Ali’s guesthouse, chatting to a Dutch couple who were also catching the ferry to Dar Es Salaam the next day, and had yet another early night.

After a long lie in and a hearty breakfast, we walked down to the port in plenty of time before the boat’s departure. Naturally therefore, the ferry was an hour late and we had to stand around in the blazing heat, no one being allowed into the cool shaded waiting hall. Eventually, the hydrofoil arrived and we were allowed to congregate at the dockside in anticipation of boarding.

The scenes echoed exactly the chaotic disembarkation of our previous ferry. We stood in a group with all the other wazungu watching in disbelief as AK-47 toting police failed to impose any order whatsoever and the throng of passengers all but hurled themselves down the gangway amidst boxes of consumer electricals, the overstuffed plastic checked laundry bags which seem to be ubiquitous whrever you go and, of course, our old favourite, the live chicken in a carrier bag.

After what seemed a lifetime, the boat was finally empty and it was time to board. Somehow this was even more chaotic. Ali had advised us that we should just go to the front of the queue as we’d paid the tourist price for the tickets and this was the done thing. Stretching away down the jetty were two huge lines, one of women and children, one of men, at least five hundred in total. And in control, one harassed looking policeman, bearing an uncanny likeness to Windsor Davies in It Ain’t Half Hot Mum. As soon as the first person was allowed through the whole crowd surged forward. There didn’t seem to be any system at work, presumably the women and children had priority, there was no way of knowing. We stood in our group and, periodically, the policeman would indicate that one of us should duck under his arms – easier said than done with rucksack – and make our way up the gangplank.

Lee made it on and I stepped up for my turn, just as a woman in a red head scarf, carrying a baby, burst through the cordon and made a desperate leap for the gangplank. She was held back but started thrashing madly, lashing out in all directions and screaming at the top of her voice. Somehow she managed to break loose and made it up and onto the boat. I was given the signal, squeezed my way beneath Windsor’s sweaty armpit and clambered aboard, stepping over the woman in the red head scarf who was lying prone on the deck with a crowd of people attending to her.

I located Lee and we managed to secure a pair of seats in the air conditioned cabin – result – then I quickly made my way to the refreshment counter and bought a bag of samosas, some chocolate bars and, oh joy, I’ve missed you my little cold friend, several cans of, mmm, beer.

The journey took six hours as it went via Stone Town and was as bumpy as hell. Four hours in the samosa/chocolate/beer combination stopped seeming like such a great idea and I started to come out in a cold sweat. Lee procured some plastic bags just in time and I spewed the contents of my stomach into one. It was surprisingly heavy. Lee described the rest of the cabin at that point as resembling a cholera epidemic. People were chucking up all over the place, bags of sick were emptying their contents all over the floor as they were cast aside, the sound of retching filled the air and the smell was awful.

Not a moment too soon, we reached port, waited for the scramble to subside and then staggered off the boat, grabbed a taxi and headed for a hotel. We’d discovered the day before that Tanzania were playing Mozambique in Dar – a crucial African Nations Cup decisive group game, their best chance to qualify for the finals in thirty years. The upshot of this was that all the hotels were full. We ended up miles out of the centre in a, not too, shabby place, forced to pay for a suite – not a suit, as Lee tried to explain to the receptionist. The good news was that I was able to recline on the sofa and watch a full replay of England’s victory against Israel.

The following day we took a taxi into the city centre and, it being Sunday, found it deserted and everything closed. We made our way instead to Msasani Slipway, an upmarket shopping complex and expat haven. Here we indulged in haircuts at a posh salon and then I was able to satisfy a craving I’d been carrying for months and tuck into roast beef and yorkshire pudding with all the trimmings – get in.

An early night followed and then we set off back into the city centre the next morning. Everything we tried to do seemed to be foiled or be a complete hassle, we couldn’t walk down the street without being surrounded by hawkers, it was all too much after the serenity of Zanzibar – there was nothing for it, we made straight for a travel agents and booked ourselves on the express train to Zambia for the following day.

We took further refuge that evening in an Irish pub, drinking Guinness and scoffing sherpherd’s pie and bangers and mash, then scribbled wedding plans on the back of a fag packet before coming joint last in the pub quiz, happy days. Our final hours in Dar the next day were spent in the post office, dispatching three enormous parcels containing souvenirs (novelties), presents and all our cold weather gear from the mountain, including boots, reducing our pack weight by half.

Once more we made sure we made it to the station with plenty of time to spare before the 4pm departure and sat in the cavernous departure hall for a couple of hours before we spotted a blackboard informing us that the train departure had been delayed to 8pm, one final kick in the teeth.