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.