Running naked

Being at home, in London, I have a little less to write about than I do when I’m overseas. Actually, that’s not true. I have plenty to write about. I could write about how I spent fifty quid on CDs when I was supposed to be buying trainers. I could write about the fact that I’m off to do Dartmouth Regatta next week (due entirely to a random encounter in a Chelsea bar at midnight last week). I could also write about how my flat needs a good tidy. This is all boring, though. Well, again I find myself questioning the nature of this journal. I really dislike the implications of the word ‘blog’. It seems so egotistical and self-indulgent – the idea that anyone would be interested in what I have to say about this, that and t’other. I can justify it to myself while I’m away because 1)It saves me bombarding my friends with emails – they know where it is if they’re interested in what I’m up to. And 2)It’s hopefully giving some idea of interesting things happening in faraway places. Now I’m home, though, I’m really only talking about that which my close friends know already.

The other issue is, of course, that it’s the ‘bad’ stuff that’s entertaining. There’s nothing more interesting than reading about arguments, complaints, muggings and police corruption. The second two don’t happen so much here, based largely on the fact that I know my way around, and that we have an effective and largely corruption-free police force. The first two, though, involve people, and more specifically my opinions of people. I can’t really write about this sort of thing in London in the same way I can while I’m away, since the people I’m interacting with – and thus writing about – are the people who may well be reading this. I can’t very well write about, as a hypothetical example, an argument I may have had yesterday with a friend, if said friend might then read the slating I’ve given him or her.

So, I’m a bit stuck really.

Meanwhile, take a gander at these….

Vibram Fivefingers, they’re called. On one of the many inflight magazines I’ve had the chance to peruse over the last two months, I found an article all about the benefits of walking and running barefoot. This, twinned with how good my many, many injuries have been feeling while I’ve been walking around Africa either barefoot or in sandals, and I thought it well worth a second look. The basic tenet is that the human body has evolved over thousands of years to walk efficiently. Then, over the last few hundred years, we’ve introduced shoes. That’s fine on the face of it, but modern trainers have so much support built in that they’re fundamentally altering the way we run (and I speak as one who has ‘profeet’ custom insoles for my rugby boots and trainers). The main effect of this has been to encourage a style of running where we lead with a heel strike – that is, the heel strikes the ground first before rolling onto the toe. Try this barefoot and, bluntly, it hurts.

So, without labouring the point too much, I’ve found these foot things (I hesitate to call them ‘shoes’) which will allow the sensation of running barefoot whilst still protecting my tootsies from the effects of glass, concrete, needles, etc. on the pavements of London. The only thing is I feel a bit of a prat in them.

Fin.

Right, that's most definitely it for Africa this summer. I am done. So what have we learned this time?

Well, I've had the most fantastic experience. The first journey I made – through Southern Africa – probably had more in the way of sight-seeing. It was whistle-stop, but I saw so much, so many things. This trip was about the experience. I saw more wildlife, more animals, gorillas, but I also met people, both local and traveling. We ate with African people, had a drink or two with African people in a way that wasn’t too contrived. We saw the communities. The truck was awesome, and the layout was just what I envisaged. I had some very high highs and some desperate lows. I’m not sure I’ve made many lifelong friends, but I met some cool people, some indifferent people, and one or two rather unpleasant people.

East Africa itself is, I guess, much more like the vision of Africa I had in my head – lush green jungle, deep red mud, shacks at the sides of the roads. I had, on average, one warm shower in five, the camps tended to be tattier and suffering more from the effects of damp that those in Southern Africa. It’s beautiful, though. It’s not as wide open, there are fewer of those epic desert sunsets, but it’s more about the people. The constant smell of smoke, the litter, the colourful dwellings.

And gods, there have been people. As is often the case, I’ve learnt more about myself by sitting back and watching other people. I certainly learnt a lot in the last week. Have I changed? Not sure. Possibly. Certainly, I reckon I’m much more able to handle myself out of my comfort zone. What, then, is next…

…and while I think about that, some random awards…

• Longest Drop - Kemba Camp, Kenya: so long, I thought I had bladder control problems. Four seconds after you stop urinating, you can still hear it hitting the bottom.

• Shortest Drop award – Bush camp, Serengeti, Kenya: 'Don't point the head torch down the- MY EYES, MY EYES!

• Best sales pitch – young banana seller at the Ugandan border: 'Sir, maybe you need some potassium.'
• Biggest ‘open mouth’ moment – seeing Savannah, forty-seven-year-old Argentinian lecturer, walking up the beach in Zanzibar with a young local bloke before disappearing into the hotel.
• Most twisted anecdote: Derek tells us he paid 20USD to shoot a duck with an AK-47 in Cambodia. The duck had a weight tied to its foot so it could fly but, you know, not too much. That, however, sounded positively humane beside the Americans who paid 100USD to shoot a cow with a bazooka. Sick, but somehow amusing.

• Most overused phrase – ‘Hakuna Matata’: Is anyone reading this who visited Tanzania pre-Lion King? I’m sick and tired of hearing the bloody phrase, even when the context doesn’t appear to make any sense. Were Tanzanians using it quite so often before Disney decided to trademark it?

• Best Poster – Jinja, Uganda: ‘Avoid Morning Sex’
• Best Kiss: This one’s a toss-up between Betty, the Rothschild’s Giraffe, and an unknown Giant Tortoise (male). I think the giraffe just takes it – mainly because of its antiseptic tongue.

All for now. Oh, I looked my spear up on t'interweb. I was a bit disappointed, as it didn't really look like the Maasai spear I saw. Imagine how pleased I was to discover it's actually a Maasai Lion Spear...

http://www.authenticafrica.com/maaslionspea.html

Grrr

I have had it up to HERE with 'Africa Time'. If you have a notice on the door of your office saying 'Sunday 0900-1300', could you PLEASE open somewhere NEAR 0900. I stood outside the Emirates office for over an hour, then walked to three different other offices. The concensus was 'It's Sunday...'. Thanks.

Anyway, all sorted now. Just the last two hurdles. Can't wait to be home. Hopefully there will be lots of food there waiting. Hopefully.

Half the world away

(A cafe outside Nairobi airport)

I am hopeful that the hardest part is now over. If there is a greater power though, and he, she or it wanted to terrify me, they couldn't have arranged a set of circumstances better.

I fell asleep around 9pm with my maasai club by my head and my bags wedged between wall and door, the loud music and conversation just outside the 'hotel' not standing a chance against my fatigue levels. I woke at around 3:20 when my alarm went off. My room was right at the front of the building, and I could hear conversation just outside the front door. I turned the light on, and two minutes later the desk woman was knocking on my door to tell me something unintelligible. I'd imagine she was speaking Swahili, only very slowly and loudly. There was a guy with her, and the sign language indicated that he was my taxi to the airport. I was immediately on my guard, since the guy the night before had said several times that he personally would pick me up. Since it was at least twenty minutes before our arranged pick-up time, I felt there might be some sort of scam on – in the worst case, the guy could have been tipped off by the woman to pick me up early drive me somewhere and rob me. Still, there was very little I could do, so I packed, moved the majority of my money and credit cards into my shoes, and went outside.

Sometimes things happen, your mind constructs a scenario, then following events demonstrate how wildly imaginative you've been. In this case, the exact opposite happened, and continued to happen. You need one guy to drive a car, right? This one had two – a driver, and a guy sitting in the back, behind the passenger seat. By now I was actually strangely calm. The adrenaline was flying through me, but I almost didn't have time to be scared. I got in. We drove off.

I can laugh now, but as we drove, I flexed my hands, and tried to convey by way of subtle body language that not only was I well able to handle myself, but was also an expert in several martial arts. It's all in the fingers, hopefully. There was no conversation, although the driver put on a tape of what, I guess, passes for Dar es Salam music. We pulled onto a petrol station forecourt by a dark, empty road. It was closed and deserted. Why on earth would two locals from Dar es Salam pull into a deserted petrol station with a relatively-rich tourist in the back at 4am? I was still scared, but somehow not displaying any of the symptoms. It was almost an unreal situation to me. The guy shouted a couple of times, presumably for attention. After the third, a shout came back. We drove off. Based on later events, I worked out that the guy was asking for petrol, and that someone shouted that they were closed,

We drove on, still on dark back streets. We pulled on to a quiet dual-carriageway and, at this point, the engine died. I couldn't quite believe what was happening, but I think subconsciously I'd decided that if anything was going to happen to me, it would probably have happened back at the garage. The thing is, I'd checked the fuel gauge at the petrol station, and it said he had half a tank. I've since learned that the fuel gauge was only one of the many things wrong with the car. The guy got out, went to the boot and came back with a plastic bottle. 'Fool', he said, and went jogging off up the road, towards a brightly-lit petrol station in the distance.

At this point, the chap in the back decided we needed to chat. As per usual, he asked where I was from. 'Ah, England! Yes, very nice place. Very nice.' Feeling still very much 'in the woods', I was conscious of needing to portray myself as not worth robbing.
'Nah, not great', I said, then struggled to think of a subtle fiscal reason why not. 'Er, it rains very much. Very cold', I explained. 'No mosquitos', I added as an afterthought.
'Manchester, Liverpool', he countered.

I was on firmer ground here, since Africans love their English football teams. 'Ah yes, Arsenal, Chelsea. Frank Lampard!'. He then tried to sell me a bracelet. I demurred, Still trying to come across as 'poor tourist with no money', I told him I'd run out of cash and that was why I was going home. He then asked me what I did in England. Obviously, I didn't want to tell him about how my last job was working for a Private Swiss Bank.

What's the most lowly-paid job you can think of in the UK? Is it 'I work with cars'? I bet it's not, is it. I could even – truthfully! - have told him I was unemployed. Yet stuck in a car at 4am in Dar es Salam, 'working in the motor industry' was all I could come up with as an example of somehow who might be practically destitute. Anyone who's just had an MOT care to comment?

The driver came jogging back and, after twice losing his keys, popping the bonnet, fiddling, then losing his keys again, we were off. Reaching the airport, I paid the 10,000TSh agreed and legged it. Was I ever at risk? I'm not sure. I don't think so. I think they made more than enough cash off me just by charging over the odds.

That was not the end of my stresses, though. The flight to Nairobi had a limit of only 20Kg. My bag weighed more than that, even with everything heavy moved to my hand luggage. You'd be amazed at just how much an antique maasai spear weighs. I hoped to be able to prop the back on the scales and keep my foot under it. My heart sank, then, when I saw the desks and realised they had separate scales in front of the desk, loaded and unloaded by a porter. I counted my dollars. Luckily, when I got to the front, the porters were very busy. The

check in official motioned to the scales, I hefted my bag on with one hand, thankful for the hours in the gym, and held onto it. The arrow shot past twenty, then I managed to lift a little and bring it back to nineteen. I immediately jerked it off and put it by the desk for him to label. I had gotten away with it.

My belt has a hidden compartment. I thought it might be useful for a twenty dollar note, or something. I never thought I might be smuggling gems in it.

I must say something about the flight. I ended up sitting next to a muslim woman in traditional dress. From Dar orginally, she happened to have lived in Birmingham for the past twenty-five years. I told her about my travails. 'It was in Temfa?', I said.
She thought for a moment. 'Temeke?', she asked? I nodded. She rolled her eyes and laughed. The best she could do was, 'I'd never, ever go there!'. Apparently, it's just about the roughest area in Dar. Totally underdeveloped, and no white people for miles around. No shit, I thought. I asked her to compare it to somewhere in England. 'The roughest area you can think of', she said. Excellent. I paid too much for the cab, too. I thought getting him down from twenty-five to ten was good. She said it was more like four. Oh well, I'm still alive.

(News Flash: 'Precision Airways, Kenya' in-flight food isn't exactly gourmet.)

One last hurdle, then. Getting out of Nairobi airport without paying for a new visa. I skipped the visa queue, waved my old visa at the official and somehow got away with it. So I'm sitting in a cafe beside the Emirates office, waiting for it to open at nine so I can pay for my ticket change. I can't help thinking I'm nearly home, yet I'm still twenty-four hours from Brixton.

!!!

South Lodge, Temeke, Liwale Street, Dar es Salam

Excuse my language, but fuck me, what have I got myself into? I'm in a small room with a double bed. There's about a foot and a half of space between the bed and the wall on three sides. I have a toilet – a 'muslim-style' squat toilet (i.e. a hole in the ground). The toilet is also the shower. I have a sink, though, and free condoms, cotton buds and 'perfumed jelly'. I'm not sure what sort of a night they were expecting me to have. There are two channels working: CNN and what I think might be porn – although the signal is of a similar quality to that in American Pie. I think I have made a bit of a mistake here, although I'm hopeful that it'll be something I'll look back and laugh about.

Last night was a tad messier than I'd planned. I eventually reached bed at around 2:30am. The next morning, I was feeling more than a bit hungover. I'd arranged to be on the same transfer as the Irish girls, at 9:30am. It's been a breath of fresh air to spend time with them – they have the sort of uncynical, unmalicious senses of humour that I've only just realised has been sorely lacking on this trip. They have a great line in self-deprecation, but there's no edge, and never any nastiness. They're great, and I wish they'd been on our truck. Anyway, minibuses came and went, but by 9:40 we were still stood outside Paradise Beach Bungalow. Now, I think this was the first stitch up of the day. A guy from reception handed us to another guy who walked us five minutes down the road. We now think that this was to move us away from the booked pick-up point and send us via another vehicle. By half past ten, we were still sitting outside 'Jambo Brothers' villas, with no sign of a taxi. It was always, 'five minutes, five minutes...' Eventually, as another driver offered to take us (at which point we said, 'Yes, but show us your vehicle!'), a minibus came screaming up. We hooned it back through Zanzibar, the driver stopping at three police checkpoints and only having to hand out bribes at one.

In any case, we reached the ferry in good time, and it was an uneventful journey over. The Irish girls, together with eight or so people who'd been staying in Stone Town, were all traveling on a big yellow 'Toucan Travel' truck. They were heading back to Makardi Beach Club, so I joined them on the local Kigamboni ferry and taxis. My plan was to stay the night there, then get an early taxi for my 5:30am flight. Sadly, I realised that the ferry wouldn't be running at that time of the morning, and that taxis to the airport needed the ferry, or else it was an epic journey round the bay. The three Irish girls were due to fly out tonight, so I jumped in the taxi with them to head to the airport. I agreed with the driver to find me an hotel close to the airport. I now have that. Oh yes I do.

After we dropped the girls off, a few things happened. My driver was dropped off to swap cars with another guy – his uncle, who spoke better English. We then picked up his brother. In hindsight, I should have had a hotel in mind, from Lonely Planet. Sadly, I hoped they could find me a more convenient hotel close to the airport. They have. Oh yes they have.

I think I'm in a township. This is like a motel, and quite incongorous amongst the tin shacks. I'm sure I'm the only white person for miles around. The brother went into negotiate for me. He said 40USD. I gave him 35000TSh (30US), and I still wonder how much he's pocketed. There was some to-ing and fro-ing over the taxi bills, and the fact that they capitulated to my cheap taxi ride for tomorrow morning suggests they've already made a lot from me. Oh well.

I shall not be leaving this room until 3:45 tomorrow morning, when I've agreed with the brother to collect me. I spoke to the woman at reception about food, but she speaks no English. The word for 'restaurant' from Lonely Planet got her on the phone to the kitchen. I've just had chicken and chips, although I think it might have been chick and chips. I'm very nervous about this place. Still, the guy should come tomorrow, as he'll be getting paid for it. I just have to get a few hours of sleep, so I'm going to bed in a bit. I can't tell you how much I want to be home. I shall be sleeping with my maasai club beside me tonight (and I'm really not joking). I'm half tempted to assemble my spear and have that ready by the door, but to be honest it's probably a bit unwieldy for such a small space. I think I may give my sister a ring...

I Like Turtles

I was down at the scuba office at 8:30. Charley, clearly the boss, wasn't there, but the guys seemed to think they could give me the cash back later. We were headed to Mnemba, the same island we'd been moored off for the snorkeling. As I mentioned, the island is very exclusive, the preserve of the rich and famous. The dive master told us that there are a number of bungalows, and that each one has a private boat and its own dive master. Incredible, really.

There were five of us diving, and one snorkelling. There were three Irish girls all travelling together – one, like me, had done five or six dives. The others were doing a 'try dive'. Of the French couple with us, the guy had, apparently, done over four hundred dives. I mean, how? Our dive master was from Zanzibar, and spoke reasonable English. Since we'd not dived for six months, we were required to do a 'check dive'. I have to say the fact that they charged me 20US for this annoyed me a bit, since it consisted of a ten minute chat in the boat, then five minutes sat on the bottom doing basic exercises before we headed off on the dive proper. Bit of a swiz, f you ask me.

Anyway, the scenery was amazing, and so, so many fish. We swam down an incline to about eighteen metres, then along a coral wall. Quite magical, and I've decided that there's room in my life for both scuba and freediving (move up, kayaking). The Irish girl, though, ran out of air unusually quickly. She'd not got the hang of the buoyancy, so had expended a lot of air getting that right, then had been breathing quite hard. It's a beginner's error, and I did something very similar the last time. The french guy had 140 left, I had 110 left, she was on 60. When she hit 50bar, the instructor buddied with her for the rest of the dive so we didn't have to come up early. It wasn’t a problem at all. Still, when we surfaced she was clearly a bit embarrassed. I explained to her that, in my opinion, she'd been completely honest about her experience, so it was up to the dive master to manage it. Not only that, I was more than happy to come up when we did, and while we could have stayed down another ten minutes, it was enough for me. She was talking about not going down for the second dive because she didn't want to 'spoil it for the rest of us', but I told her she'd paid and that the professionals would sort it out.

Sure enough, that afternoon, two instructors came down with us. This was a 'drag' dive, with the dive master towing a a buoy on the surface. We even saw a sea turtle, which was fantastic – and much bigger than I expected. I was mildly annoyed that I eventually had to grab the dive master's leg when I was down to 50bar, since I feel he should have checked earlier. The Irish girl had the same amount of air left as me, suggesting this morning had been an anomaly. Together with a third Dutch girl that had joined us, we surfaced slowly with the other instructor, leaving Jacque Cousteau to continue for another fifteen minutes. Everyone happy.

We all talked on the way back, and it turns out that the Irish girls are part of a group of six all on a Toucan Travel truck, parked at Mikardi. They were heading back the next morning, so I agreed to share their minibus.

So, a great day, and I'm glad I did it. After much screwing around, enough people paid with cash to give me cash back, so I'm solvent again. Right, got to go find Margrett and get food. Zanzibar sucks.

Paradise Regained

Well, as seems always to be the case, I met people. I met a wonderful Norwegian actress/director called Margrett in the taxi. She's been here for three weeks, travelling on her own. She's quite the most gregarious, friendly person I've met in a while. We walked around Ngungwi tryign to find somewhere to stay and eventually, the two of us found ourself in the dorm in the Paradise – there are eight beds, but it's just the two of us. I've also booked to go scuba diving tomorrow, since I figured I really should while I'm here. Margrett and I did that sort of social dance where circumstances have thrown you together with someone, you're happy to spend more time with them, but you don't know if they're the same. Eventually, we established that yes, we both wanted dinner and yes, we'd both be happy to eat together. So that's what we did. More wonderful fresh fish, but after paying for the meal I realised that I'd run out of cash. Completely. I kicked myself for paying the scuba fees (160USD) in advance and in cash. There are no cash machines in Ngunwi, and one Beureaux de Change which charges ten percent! Anyway, I figured I could get the cash back from the dive office the next day….

(more to add later. Irish girls and scuba diving – enticing, non?)

Independent Traveller (Part 2)

(with apologies to Destiny's Child)

Karibu Inn, Stone Town, Zanzibar

So that's it, then. I've just waved off the rest of the crew in a mini-bus. I'm feeling incredibly emotional right now. I'm struggling, though, to put my finger on the exact reason for this, although fatigue is certainly a factor. I'm glad the trip has come to an end for me. I'm glad I'm going home to see my friends and family. Some of the people on the truck, I really will miss. Others, I'm very glad to see the back of them. The events of the past few days have left a very sour taste in my mouth. I don't know, perhaps this is the sort of stuff that happens to people all the time, only they manage to ignore it. It's had a rather profound effect on me, though. Don’t doubt, though, that it’s been a fantastic trip.

Spent the morning looking around Prison Island (actually used to be a quarantine centre) and feeding giant tortoises, having headed over on a boat with ‘Mr. Bean’ written on the large orange canopy (there was another boat there with ‘Luvly Jubbly’ written on it, too.). We were back to the Karibu Inn for lunch, then everyone loaded up and headed off for the ferry. They’re at Mikardi tonight, then onwards to Malawi and Zambia.

Still, I'm back for three nights only, reprising my role as 'Independent Traveler'. The last couple of times I've been in this situation, it's led to weird and wonderful things happening to me. Let's hope the pattern continues. Ali has told me there's a shared taxi going to Ngungwi at 1pm, so I'm killing half an hour until it gets here.

Spice World

And so ends the most epic, fun, scary, emotional twenty-four hours of the trip. I am shattered, emotionally and mentally. Best I don't go into too much detail, suffice to say that when I wasn't trying to help, I was an uninvolved bystander. Where on earth do I start with this one?

I think starting on the beach might be the way forward. The Dhow turned up around four thirty, but still no sign of Phil, Anna and Ellie, who were still out on their scooters. After loading up, we waited for fifteen minutes for them, but with no sign we put out to sea. As we were passing the hotel, someone caught sight of Phil's t-shirt. Sure enough, they'd just pulled in. Ellie, legend that she is, immediately shed clothes down to her bikini, and dived straight off the steps. The crew turned the boat to intercept, and Ali managed to scoop Ellie out of the water – the current nearly removing her bikini bottoms. The boat pulled in to pick up Phil and Anna too, but kudos must go to Ellie for a stirling performance. This got even better when we asked her why they were late and, breathlessly, she explained she'd run a roadblock and had outrun a policeman on a scooter. Good girl.

The cruise was the usual fun combination of laughter, bitching, drinking and a bit of swimming. I'm busy justifying my dislike of Jess. I really don't think – and this is one of the worst things I could say about someone – I really don't think she's a very nice person at all. When she's had a few, she's incredibly obnoxious, demanding food and drink, swearing loudly and aggressively at people. I've also noticed she picks up on any self-depreciation and hammers it back at people. 'I bet we looked like twats on that scooter', I said at one point. 'Yes, you did.', she agreed, with absolutely no trace of humour. Yes, but at least I could get on without having to lift my gut clear of the handle bars. I think she's a bully, really, and there seems like a lot of hate tucked away inside.

Anyway, moving on to lighter matters (for just a few minutes), we were back for around seven, then we ate at a table on the beach at eight. Chollo's did a pre-arranged bbq, which was fantastic. We were feeling the love tonight, and everybody had a great time. 'Northern' Rachael even pulled a tall chap, and were last seen heading to the apartments, followed by a round of applause from the rest of us.

Things took a turn later on, though. By four, there were only a few of us left, and it was getting, in my opinion, a little seedy. I'm not going to name names, but one of the girls was that plastered, she told me she didn't want to be left alone. I was relatively sober, and we ended up chatting on for a while. Now, I have total recall of what happened, but at some point one of the others got a bit over-aggressive and, while there's no question it wasn't deliberate, the girl ended up hitting her head hard against a wooden bench, just under the ear. She burst into tears but never lost consciousness. In the end, I got her to her room and left her in the care of her roommates. I went to bed.

At 5:30am I was awoken by an urgent knocking at the door. The girl with the injured head had come to her room in a state. The girl knocking on my door was drunk, but was a nurse. She was worried. Luckily, I had Rob's number. I called him, he came out of his room, called Ali, who called a doctor. Despite the stress of the situation, I almost burst out laughing. the doctor had jeans, t-shirt and a white coat two sizes too big for him. He had a stethoscope. It was just like one of the local sunglasses sellers had dressed up for the occasion.

In any event, after much talking and examination, the girl was making more sense and, while she couldn't remember what happened, she didn't want treatment. I went back to bed.

I slept for an hour before going for breakfast. Rob was already there. 'Morning! Good night's sleep? Big night?', he asked. I smiled and shook my head. I took him aside and explained everything from my point of view, since he still wasn't sure on the details. I even have it typed out on this laptop, just in case I need it - that's how seriously I viewed this. I left it to him to sort.

So, I packed, then off on the bus for the Spice Tour. This was, as just about everyone finds, much cooler than you expect (because you can't get plastered on spices in the same way you get plastered on wine). It was a walk through a plantation, tasting and looking at spices. They had perfumes, a guy climbing a tree and singing, to cut down coconuts (apparently, they sing to warn people below, and to demonstrate they're not a thief). I had fun asking after every spice, 'Can you smoke it?' I also had a theory that the trees weren't spices at all, but that some enterprising local had come along and simply hung the relevant spices on the various branches.

Dropped at Stone Town with the others, fatigue and stress over the evening's events combined to have me on the edge of tears. Several people remarked that I didn't seem to be myself. It was odd that while everyone knew the girl had hit her head, no-one knew the circumstances. Someone asked the girl about it, but she didn't seem to remember anything. Eventually, I spoke to Rob again. Very quietly, he said it had all been dealt with and everyone wanted to forget it. He also explained that the girl did remember what had happened, and was deliberately feigning ignorance. I spoke to her later, and sure enough. So, all forgotten. I'm still not very happy about it all, but parties have apologised and there's no malicious intent. It's time to go, though. Time to leave.

Cocktails overlooking the sea, then dinner at the fish market, though. What an experience. Pick kebabs of various fishes, they bbq it for you and give it to you on a paper plate. Fantastic, all the noise, bustle and smells you'd expect. As we ate, a young local guy started talking to me. Reluctantly, I engaged him. I assumed he was trying to sell me something, but I went along with it. I couldn't have been more wrong. Bless him, he's an engineering student. He's highly ambitious, and comes to the market every night simply to talk to tourists to improve his English. I really admired him for that, and we talked for some time.

Tick

Same old, same old, same old. A I gaze out over the white beach, I have taken to saying, 'Zanzibar's rubbish', at irregular intervals. Last night was a quiet one. We ended up on two-for-one cocktails at Fat Fish, just along from our hotel. It turns out that there's a stack of different hotels and bungalows around Ngungwi, of various levels of comfort and oppulence. Our rooms are clean with a double bed and net each. The shower's great, when it works. The pressure is highly variable, and I've already once spent ten minutes, fully soaped up, standing under a shower head from which there was a conspicuous lack of water issuing. I had the 'Catch of the Day' in Fat Fish, which turned out to be Dorado. It was a slab of white fish on a lump of mash potato with some lumps of what I think was gelmsquash on the side. It was utterly fantastic, possibly the best piece of fish I've had in years. After that, though, it went down hill. We went to Chollo's, the bar on the beach. I just wasn't feeling the love, not at all. It just wasn't happening for me. There's also the issue that like everyone on the trip I'd guess, there are certain people I really don't click with and want to avoid. It was very difficult last night to get into a conversation without the presence of one of these people.

The only amusing highlight, I suppose, was when they put on some cheesy disco music, as opposed to the reggae and heavy R'n'B they'd had on. I looked over to the local guys dancing round the fire and, frankly, they hadn't got a clue what to do. Black guys might have rhythm, yes, but they don't when they're listening to white music. Hilarious. I really felt like throwing them some sort of disco lifeline...

Today, though, my African experience is complete. I have finally ticked off just about everything. Yes, there's a lot more to see, but I've now seen all of the 'must do' stuff. Today, you see, I had my first encounter with Amusingly-Corrupt Policeman.

We hired bikes. Ellie, Anna and Danni hired scooters, Phil hired a trail bike. I, lacking license, was forced to perch behind Danni on her scooter, desperately trying to communicate by way of eyebrow raises, shrugs and mouth-twisting that I was, in fact, in charge but was just letting Danni drive. I'm pretty good at this, since I spent a long time perfecting it every time Abbie ever gave me a lift. So, we roared off. Very slowly. Well, our speedometer didn't work, so I'm just going by how it felt. I also had to keep one hand on Danni's helmet to stop it flying up, since it didn't fit so well.

We were only twenty minutes down the road when, having already passed one police check, we were pulled in by a couple of guys in khaki uniforms and black berets. We were then led off our bikes into a small office. This was where the fun and games began. We had a guy in an open-necked shirt telling us how we had the wrong licenses. Apparently, having license for a car does not mean we're allowed to ride scooters. This was clearly ridiculous, but descended into farce fairly rapidly. He was very keen on us understanding that he didn't want to ruin our holiday by detaining us, and that it was very important that we understand what we have done wrong. After twenty minutes of this, we asked, 'Look, how much money do you want?' He didn't want money, though, apparently. No, no, not money...
'What do you think of this police officer?, he asked, motioning to the guy that had pulled us in.'Do you think he's doing a good job?'
'Yes, brilliant job, top hole, very professional... wonderful lustrous moustache', we chorused. Basically, the desk bloke wanted us to show our appreciation for the good job the cop was doing. Our niavity saved us, I suppose. We argued on for an hour. They wouldn't name a sum other than 'you'd pay fifty US at the court in Stone Town'. In the end , we told them we had no money, and that we'd have to go to Stone Town to get some. We sped off, with no intention of returning. At the junction, Danni and I decided enough was enough and headed home. The others continued to Stone Town. Speaking to Rob and Ali afterwards, we could probably have slipped them 10,000TSh each and been on our way (something like four quid). It's the principle, though, goddamit.

After dumping the scooter off, I spent the rest of the day chilling, and doing a spot of local snorkeling with Skyler. The Sunset ('Booze') Cruise is due to depart from the beach at 4:30pm – and that's about an hour away. I should really go to the beach to do some sitting.

Reef-er

Today, then. Snorkeling, and lots of it. We have a 'fixer' on the island called 'Ali'. I've now established that his name is Ali Muhummed, and not 'Ali Baba', as Rob refers to him. He's a guide-cum-liaison-cum-tour rep. He's dark skinned, but that of the Arab rather than the native central African. He has fascinating eyebrows, and the sort of tight afro that fits easily under one of the traditional 'cloth flowerpot' hats they have here, yet springs up and out instantly the moment it's removed (presumably when Ali is either threatened or courting). He was in the minibus with us from the ferry, giving us a briefing on the various optional activities.

Today, as I mentioned, we were off on one of the traditional wooden Dhows to a local island where there are many reefs. This was the first time I'd done any sort of diving since I did the Freedive course in the SETT tank at Portsmouth naval base. While I haven't practiced religiously, it would be interesting to see if it had made any difference. The plan was to sail to Mbemba – a privately-owned island that's a marine reserve and the preserve of the rich and famous. Bill Gates and Naomi Campbell holiday here (although rarely, I'd guess, at the same time). Consequently, they have patrols ensuring us proles don't stand on the coral or go ashore. Any sort of standing, then, is either 'standing on coral', or 'ashore'. So don't stand up, Ali tells us. Yes, Ali is a 'snorkeling guide', too.

We sailed straight off the beach, passing a school of dolphins en route. We also dropped the cook off in the shallows of a nearby beach. It was funny watching him guiding his big coolbox, Kingfish balanced on the top, into the shallows. He was to cook for us while we were away getting wet. The snorkeling itself was fantastic, and I really want to do more of it – more freediving (yes, that'll be when I'm not surfing and kayaking, writing a book, playing the piano and curing cancer. It's good to have goals.)

I'm sure I spent more time under water, and I'm sure I was able to go deeper than before, and stay down for a tad longer. I loved it. Of course, I managed to injure myself. I now have a big scab across my shoulder. I was, inevitably, showing off. I was finning along the bottom on my back, about seven metres down. I went straight into a rock. Twat.

Some words about my new tent/room-mate, Matt. He's very strange kettle of fish, is Matt. I can't work out what he's about. I had a feeling he was slightly odd on the first night, when he asked me a few slightly obvious questions, but it's been more interesting to observe him from a distance. I don't know if he's actually a 'proper' racist, or if he just has no tact, but he tells rather unfunny racist jokes. Not only that, he does it as an opener! I was sitting round the camp fire at Kemba, waiting for dinner. He sat down to blonde Rachel (she-who-is-now 'Rob 'n' Rachel'). Rachel is very English, very well brought up and very well-mannered. When it was announced that we were going to Ellsamere for 'afternoon tea', I just knew it would be Rachel's favourite thing. She's well spoken, never swears, never raises her voice and it takes an awful lot for her to utter a word of criticism above, 'Well, they're not really my kind of people.' Picture painted, Matt sits down, turns to her and says, 'A priest and a rabbi are driving along the road one day...' The punchline was as tasteless as you'd expect. I was open-mouthed, and Rachel could do nothing more than utter a strangled squawk. I'm not overly-judgemental about people who tell offensive jokes, as long as they're funny. Why not, though, why not kick off with a non-rascist joke, just for the craic. You know, test the waters. He's managed to thoroughly piss off Ellie, too, by explaining to her in no uncertain terms why Britain is not part of the EU. Interesting guy. I've heard a rumour – which may have come from him – that he might have ADD. This would make sense, as he spends a lot of time sleeping, too. That's when he's not smoking copious amounts of weed.

(The title only took me ten minutes, too. Quite pleased with it.)

On the terrace again. It's getting bloody difficult to get any time to write at the moment, which is a shame as I'm beginning to really enjoy it. Actually, it's not really the writing I enjoy, so much as the creative process behind it. If I could drop thoughts directly onto the page, that'd be great. The reason it's getting hard is because I seem to be growing in popularity. No, seriously. Whenever I head to the bar with laptop, grab a beer and a table and prepare to wax 'travelogue', one of my truck-mates wanders through and decides to join me. Then another, then another. I'm typing now through force of will, since I've already been joined by six others – one just two minutes after I sat down. Anyway, there are enough people now to carry on their own conversations, so I can fade out a little and do this. I will, of course, be acting as a part-time 'conversation consultant' and facilitator should awkward silences occur.

I woke up, unbelievably, without a hangover. I got to bed last night at around 2:30am. Interesting times again. There's a bar on the beach next to us, with a huge sound system and tables made out of old boats. There were candles all over the beach, and I genuinely felt like I was in a movie. I half expected Tom Cruise to pop up behind the bar with a cocktail shaker in his hand (then, presumably, get into a relationship, screw it up by being young and impetuous before making a heartfelt and ultimately successful attempt at reconciliation). Six of us ended up there until late, throwing our best dance moves on the sand. That was when we weren't busy protecting the girls in our group from the amorous locals. They'd just appear, dancing with us. In the end, we tried to ignore them, but there was one moment when the three girls remaining each grabbed one of us blokes and pretended to be 'involved' (but you know, not too much).

It got a bit odd, though – or deliciously salacious, if you like. One of the guys – a guy with his girlfriend on the tour – had been on blinding form all night. He was the life and soul and, of course, was completely 'safe' to dance with, since his girlfriend was back in his room. Safe, that was, until he tried it on with one of the girls. Nothing came of it, and she was very firm in her rejection, but we're still not sure what he's up to. I don't think he and his girlfriend have been happy together for months, and they both seem happier when they're not together. But still.

It ended up with Mia, Danni, Kiara and I sitting on a bench overlooking the ocean at 2:30am, talking about life and all that rubbish. No firm conclusions reached.

Paradise

Paradise Beach Club, North Beaches, Zanzibar

There are some moments in life that you just want to bank – to store them, psalt them away and be able to look back and feel as you did then. It's not that I'm deliriously happy right now, or that everything is better than it's ever been. As it happens, I'm feeling a very tiny bit lonely, and missing friends, family, M&S and all those other 'home' things. No, it's that I look around right now and I'm struck by how very, very lucky I am. Life could be a lot worse. The bubble of Swahili conversations and instructions floats up through the white-noise crash-swish of the waves breaking on the shore. I'm sitting at a table in an open bar, built on stilts out into the water. The sun has dipped below the horizon, leaving muddy yellows and blues, and the beautiful sweep of the dhows under sail, silhouetted against the sunset. There is a very cold bottle of Kilimanjaro beer in front of me.

We transferred across from Mikadi beach club this morning. It's been an epic day, yet it feels like I've been here a long, long time. We first had to catch a 'local' car ferry across the harbour to the main ferry terminal. This was 'colourful'. One of the pluses of driving so many miles every day is that you really get a feel for the geographical culture changes. As we've moved through Tanzania towards Dar es Salam and the coast, every stop we've made has seen more and more Islamic influences in the people – their clothes, their colour, their speech. This, if you didn't already know, was due to the influence of the Arab traders and slavers moving up and down the North-East coast of Africa. Dar itself is mainly muslim, and it was interesting to see African women wearing Bhurka and Yashmak...

(Now here's a question for you: Can I use the word 'negro' to describe a black native of Africa – say Bantu. Although the word was used in a negative context during the apartheid days, surely it's acceptable, in the same way that I am a Caucasian. And yet I'm still not sure. Comments, please – and not on my spelling.)

Anyway, yes, there were many negro women wearing very colourful Islamic-style clothing. They also each carried a bucket. As they arrived at the ferry terminal, each pushed her way to the front, dropped her bucket and sat on it. I'm not sure if the bucket serves some purpose of work or leisure, or if it's the Tanzanian equivalent of a shooting stick. The ferry ride itself was a ten-minute affair on a rusting scow ram-packed with people, cars and Daladalas (the minibus-taxi equivalent of the Kenyan 'Matata'). We then had a ten-minute walk to the main ferry terminal for the ride to Zanzibar on the 'Flying Horse'. Apparently, there are other ferry options, but they're eight hours, as opposed to two.

So, two hours in a minibus up to Ngungwi, on the very north tip of Zanzibar. Bit of a tourist trap, this, but it's lovely. It's beautiful, and I really wish there were people I'm close to here to appreciate this.

Kemba Camp, Tanzania

The shennanigans started last night, and did they start.

First up, the usual to-ing and fro-ing with the tips. The Serengetti was very fast for two hundred and fifty US, with lots of driving, rushing between animals and schedules. Basically, most people felt a little ripped off. And yet you still have to tip. It’s just hard, sometimes, trying to remember that all the noughts don’t mean so much, and that actually it’s still only a few quid.

After rushing through the park (‘can’t stop for family of lions, got to get home’, we spent around six hours driving back to Snake Park. inner was a bbq – a load of top-quality dead animal parts, cooked over one of the fire pits they have here. There's still quite a divide between the 'originals' and the 'newbies' and, up until now, it's only really been Phil, Derek and me who've made an effort to cross the divide. I mentioned Jess has been winding me up, and it appears now that she's getting a lot of stick from most of the people on the truck... only she doesn't actually know it. I was talking to Rob and Boyo, and they pointed out that she's is invariably first up to get food when dinner is served, first to get seconds, and first to finish off anyone's leftovers. It doesn't in anyway help that she's quite overweight. It's hilarious, and as I watched, I realised they were spot on. In fact, Boyo pointed out that even some of the guides from the other trucks had noticed. Thing is, if I didn't find her so obnoxious, I'd feel bad about chuckling about all of this.

Oh yes, Ella arrived! I couldn’t believe it. ‘Ella’ is the Nomad truck I was on through Southern Africa in May and June. She was on transit, so I didn’t know either of the drivers, but what were the chances of seeing exactly the same truck in Tanzania?!

Matt arrived in the midst of this. Matt is the final member of our trip. He'd come all the way from Winnapeg via London, but had managed through his own errors to miss two flights. Then they'd lost his luggage. So he'd been hanging around in Nairobi for a few days, waiting for his bags to arrive. Sadly for me, Rob's put him in my tent (my tent, my tent, goddamit!). Still, he seems like a reasonable bloke – asking a few too many questions, perhaps. Anyway, he was soon introduced to a 'Ma's Revenge' – a shot containing amongst other things, tequila and tobasco. Ma's an interesting character. she's small and wizened. She wears rimless glasses and has that slightly asexual look that older women with short hair sometimes affect. She seems very cuddly and nice but I have a strong feeling she's very easily underestimated. Quite a steely core, I think. I heard her dealing with some of the Maasai locals working for her, and that lady ain't for turning.

The shennanigans, then. I went to bed around 1am. My new tentmate, Matt, was still awake. He's twenty-two, and a little naive...well, perhaps that's not fair. He had a lot of questions, though, some of which were a tad obvious. Anyway, the others came back around 2am, making a lot of noise. They'd decided that, since it was Matt's first night, they should jump him in his (well, our) tent. Sadly, since they were all fairly paralytic, their approach wasn't exactly covert. This meant I had plenty of time to position myself at the tent door, and grab them with a roar when they attempted to unzip it. Screams aplenty. After that, they left us alone. That certainly wasn't the end, as they then all piled into Ellie and Danni's tent. My favourite moment was when Matt – who doesn't have any sort of torch – headed off to the toilets. I heard him come back and climb into next door's tent. I heard much shuffling and scraping for the next ten minutes before I heard, 'Wait, I'm in the wrong f***in' tent!' He appeared two minutes later, looking slightly flustered. He'd been trying to climb into the wrong sleeping bag.

The noise continued, with contributions from Derek. While it didn't worry me, I did think it might draw complaints from the other campers. I wasn't disappointed. Five minutes later, I heard a female with an American accent basically going nuts, 'Shut the F**K up!...need to be up in three hours!....'. Perhaps predictably, this didn't draw the contrition it might have if it had been I making the noise. I think the most eloquent response I heard was, 'F**k off rednecks, Go invade someone else!' Diplomatic.

It quietened down soon after, but I remember thinking there might be reprisals. Sure enough, come dawn... I was already awake. I heard cowbells, and some yelling in an American accent. 'Yup, fair dos', I thought. I do think our guys had been out of order the night before, so this felt like fair retribution. I went outside ten minutes later, though, to find Danni and Ellie fiddling with their collapsed tent. It turned out that the guys from the night before had not only woken them up, but collapsed their tent with them still inside it. I still thought this was funny, and nicely poetic. However,. they'd also padlocked their zip. It was fortunate that the zip didn't close properly, so the girls were able to crawl out through the door. Rob pointed out when I told him about all this that it could have been dangerous if either of the girls had been asthmatic, claustrophobic etc. 'Not cool', as he put it.

The kicker, then, is I have a feeling the other truck here tonight may be the same guys we had issues with. Interesting. I do think that our bunch showed little understanding of having done anything wrong. Still, they're young – mostly.

Otherwise, it was a drive day today. Oh, oh, oh! I forgot...we went to a Maasai Heritage Centre today, which was basically a massive 'Aladdin's Cave' of statues, necklaces, crafts and weapons. And Tanzanite.

Tanzanite is a precious stone, purple in colour, and only found in one area in Tanzania. I don't really know what happened today. I looked at the price charts, I had a chat with the expert and Rob... and I took a punt. I've just spent a ridiculous amount of money on some gems. It's almost entirely mined out now, and will be rarer and rarer. The prices have been appreciating by twenty-five percent per year for the past few years – taking a dip on nine-eleven. They're beautiful, too. Even with the amount I spent, the gems I have are surprisingly small. I figure, though, that they're stunning, and they're not going to go down in value. I've bought two – one as an investment, and one to, inshallah, give to someone someday... We shall see. I don't think I shall regret buying them. I may regret not buying more. It's definitely the thrill of the gamble, though. I just have to get them back to the UK. I'm not going to be hiding them anywhere intimate, that's for sure.

Buoyed by this crazily impulsive spending, I bought some carved animals as presents, and added an 'antique' Maasai spear to the club I bought in the village the other day (because you know, it's always good to have a Maasai club under the bed). A bit of haggling, too, although I have to get the hang of walking away. I was looking at spears with Ed, the new Irish guy, when his girlfriend came up and said she was thinking about a tanzanite gem. I imagined him thinking, 'Okay, you can have a gem if I can have this spear.' I could just picture them in their tent, later – him playing with his new spear, and her looking at her gem.

We stopped for an hour in Arusha. This was a bit of a shock after the tranquility of the various camps, with people offering to help us, sell to us, buy from us. I think it must be because it's the start of the month, but every ATM had huge queues. In one, a security guard was actually helping black women with the buttons because they clearly didn't know how to work it. Perhaps it's wages, or benefits, or something. I've been struggling to get hold of enough currency, since I still have to pay for Zanzibar and also give Rob the dollarage for the rest of the trip. Having stayed behind to guard the truck, I had precious little time to do everything I wanted to. I ended up drawing two batches of 400,000 Tanzanian Schillings out with two cards, then running to a beaureau de change and swapping most of it for dollars. This at the expense of both lunch and the bathroom. I was back at the truck bang on time, then seethed to myself for ten minutes while we waited for everyone else. So, sum total of one beer since breakfast. Can't wait for dinner.