MAISHA MEMA
After a tediously packed wedding preparation
for 4 months and an equally demanding week of stay at the In Law's, we finally
packed our sacks for our much thought out honeymoon into the wilderness called Africa. The place seemed to have occupied the first
spot in both our bucket lists as well as imagination. Hence the choice did not
pose much discussion or opposition. Our excitement did not match our ages as the
date of departure approached and Africa did not disappoint. On glancing over my
notes of the 10 odd days in this bohemian country, I find many strange, some
comic experiences but none not memorable.
Just
as expected out of the offspring of the Indian middle class from small towns,
we reached the airport a tad too early. The hurdles that we had imagined -
surprise traffic, unnaturally long queue of passengers and unexpectedly
unfriendly immigration official - did not show up and hence we had enough time
to smoke, sip coffee, read the Classified page of an Old Times of India
rummaged from my sack, and even dig through some good jokes from the inbox. On
second thought, maybe our upbeat mood made us ignore the mood spoilers, if any.
In fact, we did see some of the Indian ladies still make grim faces and
complain that the CISF official did not help them lift their bags or made a bit
too much noise in moving the laptop trays. I suppose you can’t blame them;
after all there is an acute shortage of noise and struggle otherwise in a city
like Mumbai!!
Kenya
airways KQ 203 departed at the right time of 0310 on the 29th November 2013.
The entertainment system did not work despite very sincere efforts of pressing
every button provided on every face of our seats. We dosed off after waiting
for alcohol for an hour. The air stewards were from the same generation as the
ones in Air India. Hence, we simply pulled the blankets till our chins and
hoped to get some sleep in the remaining 4 and half hours. The seats being on
the front row, we had king size leg space; thanks to an early web check-in by a
friend (Langda). And Babu slept. I wish I could claim the same for myself. The Airways has a video for safety instruction with a white lady as a sign language
interpreter who was abnormally hyper and frantically animated in her
expressions. I kept up my efforts to catch some sleep but the lady kept coming
back to me in sleep with her athletic and passionate instructions.
We walked out of the aircraft into a chilly
and drizzly Nairobi, at 6.30 am on the 29th. Alfred from Kenya Nature Trails
was waiting with a placard and escorted us to James, our driver cum guide for the
Masai Mara. James soon took over as our host for the first Destination and we
headed for the grassland with the densest population of wildlife in the world.
We did get a glimpse of the Nairobi city till
we hit the highway. The row houses with tiled roofs and well- trimmed gardens
were pleasant sights. The roads looked strange without potholes and a
pedestrian path all along. The people looked inviting and fashion forward. We
almost decided that a brief professional stint in the city at some point might
be welcome; although Alfred added that we were passing through the most posh
area in the city and the city otherwise isn't so spacious, planned or inviting.
We intend to verify this statement on the 2nd Dec, when we touch the city once
again.
The journey till the rift valley was devoid of
any events. The valley is a combination of lakes and dormant volcanic sights.
We halted at a popular view point for food and photography. The "soft chapattis"
were served rolled, cut in halves and pierced with a fork. They tasted closer
to plain Parathas back home and was fun biting into them holding them with a
fork - like a tangdi! The coffee "africafe" was just the right mix of
strength and flavor and Babu intends to pick up a tin if we spot the brand. A Latino
tourist on the next table recording an African singing a folk song worked as
the apt setting. The curio shop was attractive but the prices inhibiting. We
decided to hold on to our Kenya shillings for a bit longer. Just picked a
packet of Embassy cigarettes and a packet of Kifaru Kubwa match sticks and
headed for the rest of the journey.
The road after an hour or so proved to be a
disaster for our back and bum. It is still a mystery why would the government
decide to leave the last stretch of 60kms in such an uninviting condition. And
all the vehicles on this stretch preferred to not go lower than a speed of 60kmph
despite the rocks, holes and bumps. It reminded me of the Morain ride in Ladakh
- I wonder if it is a trick drivers use that I need to be educated on.
Sleepless from the flight and tired of the
jerky drive, the gate into the Masai Mara National Reserve failed to excite me
as much as I had expected. Instead, a splash of cold water in the tent number
five that we were allotted pleased me better. This was followed by a plate of
tangy salad, fish fillets and a bottle of tusker beer to raise our spirits
further. However, we were still slightly drowsy as we set out for our first
game drive in the Mara at 4pm on the 29th.
A cup of coffee awaited us back in the camp,
after which we walked down 500 meters of the stony trail to our tent. This time
we checked the tent in and out. The bed was made by now and the soft mosquito
net flowing around it made us a bit nostalgic. Unlike the other tents, ours
opened up into the jungle from the rear balcony. We could laze around here with
coffee and smoke without other guests peering at us or us involuntarily
catching any action inside the other tents. The tent had huge netted windows
and hence you could basically view the jungle at any point and from any corner
if the blinds are raised. Everything had
a touch of nature and a thought for ecology. Pillars of logs, table tops of tree
barks placed on tree trunks, lamp shades of straw, street lights powered with
solar energy and menu cards held in split stems. We too felt encouraged to live
as nature wanted us to, and hence hit the bed an unnatural hour of 8.30pm;
after a long bath and a hearty meal of spinach, beef and stir fried chicken and
my first peg of Captain Morgan. There were other firsts that followed during
the trip - Southern, Afrikoko, Khaluwa and Amarula.
Owing to the previous day's exertion, we had decided to start the game drive next morning a little late. We soon realized that "early to bed and early to rise" is a tried and tested phenomena and you don't have to try too hard to follow it. We were wide eyed awake by 7am and we took advantage of the same to enjoy a "no hurry no worry" morning; something unheard of in Mumbai. We both over ate on delicious pan cakes, French toasts and sausages and did not regret it. However, we did regret the delayed safari. More giraffes, zebras and topes were all that we spotted on this drive. The big fives eluded us and we realized there is a reason why we were advised to start the safari early.
There were many number of guests in the camp, hence the lunch was buffet. Whites dominated the Resident statistics. Europeans chatted and sipped all around us but the menu was strangely Moong dal and desi egg curry; except a local "Ugali" which was a close relative of Idli. The caramel banana served as the sweet course tasted yum.
Dessert plates placed aside, we rushed to the tent for a siesta and I will never be able to know whatever happened in any corner of the world in those two hours of sleep. A cup of coffee and a walk around the camp later, we started for our afternoon game drive for the second day, 30th Nov. This drive was a success. Young male Lions sun bathing, ostrich hunting for insects, an injured hyena and a family of elephants playing with mud. The lions seemed oblivious to the half a dozen jeeps speeding towards them, the hyena tried running away despite the deep cut in one of his legs, the ostrich couple walked towards the jeep filled with white tourists in a very racist manner and the elephants seemed to put up a show exclusively for us!
Coffee next to the bonfire made us feel more welcome than the million times the waiters and the managers used to say "karibu" did. The weather was akin to the Rajasthan and Zanskar experience. Evening became extremely chilly despite the temperature ranging from 25 to 30 degrees. The frantic movement of the windmill next to the pool was a sure proof of the high wind chill factor.
The lame dinner was about to dampen our spirits when a security guard offered to walk us to the tent. We saw 3 more surrounding our tent. Despite their denial, we were sure there was some activity around and babu stayed up late peeping out of the windows hoping to steal a peep show. We were greeted by another guard in the morning right outside our tent to escort us to the dining hall. It was he who told us that they had spotted a few hyenas around our tent in the previous night.
Today's safari was to the Mara River to
witness our wild water friends. A long journey impending, we decided to have
our breakfast before starting. In the excitement of catching a few crocodiles
in action and hippos in inaction, the repetitive breakfast did not bother us. Hence,
it was bonus points when we happened to spot a cheetah trying to catch a nap
under a bush despite 2 dozen cameras clicking away, on our way to the Mara River.
And it was a jackpot when we spotted a group of nocturnal hyenas waiting for us
right on the road. The Mara River did not disappoint us either, with a display
of about 3 dozen hippos trying to create an overlapping maze of grey and snore.
The heap would topple with a single movement; hence the lazy links of the maze
simply refused to budge. A lady with Mongolian features and an enviable set of
lenses tried tactics to draw attention. All it did was to excite the youngest
of the lot to swim around for exactly 30 seconds; before dozing back to sleep.
A
little ahead, we spotted 3 pairs of crocodiles; basking a little apart from one
another. We had imagined a lot more activity by these creatures - but had
forgotten that they are cold blooded and hence basking, and some more basking,
is all they would do till sunset. We pleaded James for a night safari but he
decidedly refused. By now, our cameras too refused to click for the abundant
topis, wildebeest, wet hogs, zebras and wild buffalos spotted on the way back.
A tree loaded with vultures did stir up the scene for a while; else a mostly
quiet drive back to the camp.
By
now, it was sinking-in that our stay in the Mara was coming to an end and hence
we decided to make the best use of the remaining half a day. One way of doing
this was to upgrade to 2 bottles of the local Tusker beer instead of the usual
1, on the
poolside. The alchohol along with an oily bhendi masala for lunch
ensured we sleep like a log till 4pm; when we set out for our last game drive.
This was our last attempt at catching sight of a leopard but we had to be happy
spotting more of the same dominant creatures of the Mara, including a lion
couple. We did, however, spot a few baboons around our tent on our way back.
When told to one of the waiters, the news was received in the most nonchalant
manner. A bit late, however, there seemed to be some more hustle bustle around
our tent. We wondered if the fence around the camp was really electrocuted as
they had claimed.
The
question hanging on our minds till dinner was the next day's itinerary. The
next evening at 7pm, i.e. on the 2nd Nov, we had a train from Nairobi to Mombasa.
Hence part of the day will be consumed by the 6 hour drive to Nairobi. However,
we did have about 4 hours in the morning that we wanted to utilize well. We had
4 options here. Either we take a detour
and visit Lake Nakuru. But Nakuru being a detour of 106kms was cancelled. The
second option was to veer towards Lake Naivasa, which was closer than the
former. It was tempting but we were informed that the boat ride would cost
100USD per person; hence the plan was unanimously dropped. Nairobi City too had
a few offerings, like the Giraffe Center or the National Museum. But the entry
charges to these places also sounded unreal. So we settled for the last option
- a visit to the Masai village to see how they live, eat and make merry. The
money at stake was not low here either - 30USD per person - but the deal seemed
better than the other options. The driver, James, sounded so excited about the
decision that we almost suspected that the plan holds some hidden benefits for
him. We kept our eyes and ears open to catch any clue confirming the same, but
we had to leave it at benefit of doubt in the end.
We
set out for the village tour at 7.30 next morning. A young man of 26 (can't
recall the name now) advanced towards the car and explained how the tour money will
get submitted to the village chief and will go towards the development of
schools, colleges, hospitals and other facilities for the villagers. The money
paid, hands shaken with elders saying "soupa" (“hello” in Swahili)
and young kids' heads touched saying soupa - we were finally allowed to take
their photographs. Photography was a strict no without prior permission (and as
we realized now, without adequate payment). The Sea in between the countries
evaporated in the true sense when suddenly a young Masai hunk addressed me in
the most desi nonchalant manner in these exact many words – “Tumhara Naam kya
hai”. The fact that I can honestly quote him here can wash away any accent or
pronunciation issues the experts may have extracted.
The
village was a circle of low height house made of hay, cow dung and sand. This
mixture does not allow water to seep through and the usual life of a hut is up
to 10 years. The huts are constructed by the women and it takes about 5 months to
build a hut like that. The cattle and poultry are kept at the center of the
circle of houses. The huts are surrounded by a thorny fence along the outer
circle. This fence has three gates, guarded by 9 young men from the village
every night in shifts.
The
kids were on one of their tri-monthly holidays and hence there was a lot of
activity around to capture. The ladies were busy cleaning and cooking while the
men were getting ready to set out on cattle grazing. Polygamy
was an accepted norm till the last generation but things are changing as the
newer generation is tilting towards love marriages and loyalty. However,
marriage within the same village is not allowed. Brides are usually gotten from
the neighbouring villages.
We could see the newly constructed small
school at a distance which the guide proudly pointed out. However, he
explained, the tribe is worried of the erosion of the Masai culture with the
influx of outside cultures and languages. Hence, every kid stays with their
grandparents till they are 3 and a half year old and learn all they can of the Masai
culture during these impressive years. From then till the 8th standard, the local
school handles their education. Post that, they have to travel 20kms to the
nearest high school.
There were about 5 young men gathering up at
the center of the cattle ground while we were undergoing this crash course on
their life. They soon started humming and swaying. The humming became singing and the swaying
upgraded to jumping as they pulled us into the scene. I was filming enthusiastically while babu was
trying to cope with the rapidly rising tempo of the jumping. I too joined for a
bit till each young Masai tried to outdo the other in how high they could jump.
I quickly quit, before I might get dragged into this. I got back behind the
camera; but most of these agile young men were jumping beyond my 300mm lens
frame.
By now it was clear how often they entertained
tourists and hence they had developed a set pattern. The next on the cards was
a demo on producing fire with wood. We tried our hand along with them in
rubbing a soft wood against a hard but fire evaded us owing to the sharp gusts
of wind. They did, however, manage to sell us the concoction for 500 Kenyan
Shillings; apart from a healthy amount in the name of developing the school. I
plan to suggest their names for sales positions in my company.
A quick glimpse of their house was something
we both were interested in. It however, turned out to be very similar to the
village houses in India. What struck was the warmth within, a kid's room on one
side of the kitchen and the absence of a toilet.
To be utterly honest, after being poked for
money at every turn and being pulled to the village curio shop, we both were
somehow eager to put an end to the tour. Every suggestion and every new face
greeting us raised fear of further damage to the wallet. We said asante (“Thank You” in Swahili) a dozen times accompanied by the widest grins possible and jumped into the car; trying to hide any sign of acute relief. James, however, seemed his most cheerful self; and we couldn't suppress a slight inkling that it might be for more than just his love for Swahili culture that he was so keen on us visiting the village.
The journey to Nairobi was average. I doubt I
would have much to pen down about it. Our Japanese vehicle (Toyota) with an entirely
blocked right-hand, blew enough dust from the left to compensate, as it speeded
through the un-tarred roads; till we halted at Narok for coffee and flour cake.
The road beyond Narok was better but there were dry and barren lands on both
sides; so that you couldn't miss the occasional spurts of color - sintex water
tanks with car wash written in bright colors, psychedelic curio shop signage
next to every petrol bunk, every restaurant and every manyatta (village) and
the Gokyo bikes with electric colored graffiti on each of them.
We headed straight to the office of the Rift Valley
Railways as we drove into Nairobi, to collect our train tickets for our journey
to Mombasa that evening. A friendly official displayed confusion, ignorance and
eagerness at the same time as we uttered words like 'online booking',
'prepaid'; till we said "agent". It was then that he expressed
achievement, relief and understanding – again, all at the same time. I wonder
if they have special terms for these mixed emotions in Swahili.
Tickets in hand and some more Kenyan Shillings
in our pockets, we were dropped at the Thorn Tree Restaurant for a sumptuous
and delicious meal of king prawns in avocado sauce. We totally enjoyed the
perfectly cooked prawns with a clear view of the thorn tree right at the center
of the restaurant. For the locals, we were told, this tree symbolizes the
challenges ahead, but with a promise of improvement once we push through those
challenges. The Restaurant dates back a few decades and was always known for
the tree marking its center.
The original Thorn Tree the Restaurant had, spread
its roots a bit too much for the comfort of the civil engineers of the hotel,
which meant uprooting of the original and replacing with a younger, less
aggressive of the species. I am yet to find out the whereabouts of the
original.
The train, also known as the iron snake of Kenya,
seemingly has not seen any modifications in its entire life since the British
left the country. The aisle across the first class compartments was slightly
more than a foot wide - inspiring us afresh to thrive to become size zero. The
lower berth had exactly five parallel splits across the center. It was fun to
imagine an excited Lion as the cause of the damage though. The vent for
drinking water requested patience since we might have to wait a bit till the
water is released - after a prolonged Wait, we realized the tap is out of
order. As we were checking the other
parts of the cabin for deformities, the train jolted with a fearfully loud
noise. I am sure that even the not so god fearing passengers in the train sent
a quick word of forgiveness to the one above.
Despite all the flaws above, the train had the
quaint colonial feel to it, that made scenes from movies like Gandhi and Parineeta
whizz past your eyes. Add to that, we were traveling first class with a cabin,
wash basin and a wardrobe to ourselves for 4000 bucks for the first time. Not
just the train, the landscape outside too had an old age charm to it.
Well, let's move from the interiors to the
interactions. Joshua walked in with a huge grin and two equally huge bottle
green buckled beddings and promised to make our beds during dinner time. We had
to squeeze ourselves a bit to make space for the new boarders of our cabin. We wondered
when they will be spread these out for us; since it was just past seven yet.
Dinner and bed seemed far away developments; squeezing seemed to be the order
of the day.
Frederick, the ticket checker, pulled us out
of our worries with a loud hello. Just as we were calculating in our heads if
he was the loudest of all that we have met as yet, he unanimously won the
reward for "the most expressive person in the world". Bedanta
happened to point at an ashtray and inquired if we can perhaps smoke during the
journey. I thought it was an unnecessary inquiry, but our new friend thought it
was amusing, thought provoking, shocking at the same time. It wasn't surprising
that he failed to express so much in a single exclamation - so he broke into a
series of them. "Owwwww".."Wellllll".."Ahhhhh"
...tshtshtshtsh..and then concluded with a "let me see". This was
followed by a prolonged lecture on what a shame it was for the human race to be
controlled by a plant. We would have immediately lost interest, had it not been
in a play format. Here is an excerpt to remember –
Plant - "you are controlled by me"
Man - "no, you will never be able to
control me. I will control you from now on"....and the curtain goes down.
As the big man with the big talks was
retreating, a tinkling bell in the corridor brought us out - dinner call it
was. The elderly British couple from the neighbouring cabin seemed perfectly
fine with the early supper call; unlike us. The prawns from the thorn tree too
expressed their dislike from within. We headed towards the dining hall
nonetheless, to avoid any stamp of disobedience on us.
We were happy with our supreme display of
agility in jumping across the madly oscillating plates joining our boggy to the
restaurant; till our eyes met the cold, judging eyes of the two white gentlemen
we were to share our table with. No wonder both parties were pleased with the
slight seating adjustments that followed (owing to a mother with 3 kids), and
that put us with a young, amiable African couple.
The meal was average - chicken soup, bread,
roasted chicken, sautéed carrot and beans with rice. Wherever the taste buds
protested - we pacified them with a sip of Captain Morgan. Joshua, in the mean-while,
got our beds ready and we had the cozy beds, the non-AC night ahead, and the
dark Tsavo jungles outside, all to ourselves.
We stepped onto a quiet, elongated platform in
Mombasa at 11am the next morning. The sun outside, however, was blazing much
ahead of time and we were visibly relieved to hop into the AC Nissan waiting
for us with our new friend Ali at the wheels. Ali belonged to a branch of the
agency we hired for the trip. Our car soon wound its way to the clean, wide
streets of Miji Kenda, the well-trimmed gardens, the sturdy gate keepers and
the wooden gates in European patterns - everything confirmed that it was a posh
area. We soon drove through the gates of Mombasa Beach Resort, a
quintessentially government accommodation facility that welcomes non-government
guests if space permits. The lady at the reception was busy on a phone call
(very clearly a personal call). After a leisurely conversation, she called out
to several lobby boys and was royally ignored; and then wrongly informed us
that our stay was a full board when it was actually half board. Just when we
were losing it, a black lady walked in looking much more in control of the
place than the former. Things magically gained speed and we were soon in our
beach and pool facing room. The wooden flooring, the intricate curving on the
furniture, the heavy curtains reminded me of our stay in circuit houses in our
family holidays with dad. The slight negligence in the bathroom fittings added
to the memories.
Mombasa is on the other side of the Equator;
hence we experienced a “summer in Goa” kind of a feeling right from the moment
we entered the station. Hence, the long journey could not deter us from an
immediate dip in the Indian Ocean - and as expected it was blissful. The
excitement however was slightly damaged by the heaps of floating leaves and a
prolonged stretch of corals that you have to win over till you touch warm neck
- deep water. I suppose the disappointment was a bit too much to handle for
both of us. We were out on the Beach within minutes. We decided, however, to
remain Aquatic for a bit longer and dived into the swimming pool instead. We
were planning retreat after a few minutes of random free style, when a group of
young kids seemed eager we join them for random water soccer. Adorned with a
blue head band, babu became a part of the blue team, while I was given a singular
choice of joining the non-blue team with a 90 percent constitution of ladies.
It was a hands-down defeat; but nothing could beat the fun I had with some of
the native kids. Be it in the losing team; but I instantly felt welcome and
happy to have a space of my own. We soon realized that Mombasa topped our list
of cities in terms of the vibes it conveys.
Nairobi is New Delhi and Mombasa is Mumbai – the
Mumbaikers would know what I mean.
You don’t see the sleek skyscrapers, the wide
streets, the government headquarters or the suited men. What you see in Mombasa
are busy lives, comfortable behaviour and a non-chalant attitude. Even the women
selling bananas and the men scaring crows in the terrace restaurant speak English
in an English accent. They greet and smile at anybody they pass by. They
respond to every thanks with a “karibu” (welcome) and “haguna matata” (don’t
worry). Surprisingly, they are yet to learn to litter the public places or honk
as if your palm got stuck to the horn. I suppose they need a few Indians to
help them master these traits!
Despite the assured air around, we failed to
overcome the mind block on the first day in Mombasa. Instead of facing the city
head-on, we chose the safer option of a cab for 2700KSH (close to 2000INR).
This amount was, however, arrived at after quite a bit of bargaining down from
5000KSH. Our first destination was the Tamarind
restaurant where we intend to book a dhow cruise for that evening. When we were
crossing the approach of the hotel under renovation and then while learning the
details of the cruise from Ruth in the office behind; little did we know that
the visit is going to re- shape our entire stay in the city. We were
contemplating if the cruise was worth the amount 110USD when Victor, the
Manager of the hotel, stepped out of his cabin. In the next 20 minutes of our
conversation with him, not only did he painstakingly draw out a map of the city
plotting all the crucial locations on it and chalking out all the routes we
might want to take during our stay; but he also very successfully wiped clean a
few vital myths we tend to nurture against any African city - that "it is
not safe"; that "there is no convenient public transport; that
"people might not be trustworthy" and that "people might not be
helpful”. By the time we were jiving out of that office, we were happily
uninhibited. And of course, we had a dhow cruise fixed for the evening.
The next on cards was the Akamba handicraft
workshop. The place was highly recommended by the Lonely Planet; so we
overlooked the distance. It is basically run by a NGO to provide sustenance to
wood craftsmen. We walked through rows of dark skinned men of all ages, whose
arms were as chiseled as their creations. Of course it would have been stupid
to imagine thin white men with blue eyes in their place - wood carvings somehow
fit best in with the east alone. The trick really worked - you are impressed by
the talented craftsmen at work and feel an urge to pick up one of those little
things you actually see being created; and then you have the curio shop right
at the end to fulfill exactly that wish. You also tend to assume that the
prices will be justified since there are no intermediaries extracting profits.
We did pick up quite a bit and thence refused to compare the prices at other
shops from the fear of hitting a hard reality. Actually, it wasn't such a big
hole in our pockets either.
The next stop was Island Dishes in the old
town area - another place recommended by Lonely Planet for its 'not to be
missed' East African food. Babu anyways does not mind any distance or effort
when it comes to food. We soon realized that the route to this place is equally
'not to be missed'. It was like you were driving through a combination of Crawford
Market, Mohammed Ali Road and Dadar vegetable market. Hence, multiply the
colors, the activity and the energy of any of those places thrice and you will
get Mombasa old town. And the best part was - subtract the filth and the noise.
Island dishes looked more or less like one of
our Irani cafe. The same wooden pillars, the same glass walled cabinets and the
same four-chair square tables. The only difference, of course, was the food -
no pav with maska here. Here was a hard core extract from one of the Ramadan
stalls in Khao Gali. We had decided not to go overboard and stuck to our Pilau
and chicken curry but god knows it was difficult to not stay greedy once you
see the array. Teamed with tamarind juice, the meal was more than hearty.
We had, by now, started following the Lonely Planet
blindly. And that took us to the spice market. We had to park our car at a
distance and walk down through a cacophony of vendors, buyers and labours. We
walked into an enclosed area with vegetables, fruits and spices plotted in an
organized yet confusing structure. The vendors looked eager to make us their
customers - a little too eager for our comfort. Yes you are right, it was no
different from a visit to the Dadar or the Khar market (I hope this piece is
not becoming legible for Mumbaikers only) and the spices were far too scanty.
So much so that we did not even bother to take out our camera. The driver
looked amazed that we were back so soon (think more amazed that we could locate
the car so easily in the maze) but got us back to the hotel nevertheless. Two lessons - crowd and craze are better
enjoyed from a distance, and Lonely Planet too can go wrong at times. It is,
after all, meant for the Godas and some of the things they enjoy are a slice of
life for us. We should soon have an Indian version of Lonely Planet, like the Aloo
Tikki burger of Mc. Donald's
Evening was booked for our dhow cruise. So we
had just about an hour to chill at the beach. We could feel the Indian Ocean
beckoning us again and we weren't the ones to shy away this time. As I had
mentioned, the threshold was not as welcoming as the sea blue color made you
believe it will be. Leaves and rocks created a no man's land kind of a
transition; but if you can brush aside the leaves and swim over the rocks, what
awaits is worth it. At this point I am assuming most of my readers would have
stepped into the sea at some point or the other. I am sure they are not
unfamiliar with the sensation called "the dip in the sea". It is the
same for everyone and everywhere. So, need not fly to Africa, just unroll the
map in the attic and book tickets for the beach closest to your GPS location.
And please take a dip; at least step in. It will be a sorry story if you brood
on the beach and fly back.
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We were well before time for the dhow cruise.
Wearing matching blues and well decked for the occasion, we set out for our
first ever "party on water" night. A glass of martini in the waiting
area took care of the mood. Seats taken on the upper deck, wine served and food
orders placed, we soon had time to realize - how romantic a simple wooden
machine can be. And this realization grew stronger as that small stretch of
land grew smaller in sight. We invariably inched closer and were smiling with clasped
hands by the time the live music started.
The couple to our left looked quite a few
degrees apart in terms of age, money and even skin color. Seemed like a typical
story of “rags to riches finds an African blonde amongst his daughter's
classmates”. The pair opposite was a white with a native chattering without a
pause - seemed like friends meeting after years. Then there was this middle-eastern
family with a young boy. It was interesting to see the four older members
openly spoiling the kid. There were these two men too worth mentioning, maybe
gay, maybe father and son. I know the assumptions are quite far apart, but you
are allowed to think out of the box in foren land. The younger of the
two seemingly had bought the SLR recently and couldn't pause to see what he was
ceaselessly clicking away. And the older one couldn’t pause to check how much
of the beer he had consumed, that he was ceaselessly drinking away. Important
to mention here, they were wearing a coral and a peach cardigan respectively.
The rest of the crowd merged into the poles,
ropes and waiters in the dhow. Only till a nine-member group arrived in a
smaller boat and got into the dhow in the middle of the creek. A very authentic
African group this was - they were loud, had big bums and great smiles; the
entire group did. They poured down drinks and hogged on starters visibly
faster, to make up for the time lost. Hand holding soon changed to hip shaking.
The music had also changed to a Bob Marley hit by now. There soon was a reggae
party scene and these 4 couples were the scene stealer hands-down.
Although only until another couple stepped out
of the ropes and bars camouflage and started grooving arm in arm. I had not
noticed them till the guy suddenly knelt down and flashed a stone out of his
pocket. There were gasps and clasps around and yet another had bitten the dust
before you knew it. The lady vocalist switched to a "slow romantic"
number, but of course, and the super excited group of locals was sidelined, yes
of course.
A very unwise mix of drinks through the day
had put Babu into deep sleep. Yes, you read right. Right there in the dhow, sitting right next
to me, with the "slow romantic number" in the backdrop and the
beautiful creek around, Bedanta had gone off to SLEEP. I am sure he enjoyed the
sleep but I surely did not enjoy the sight much; and hence I prefer not to
write too much about that bit. He had overcome the fatigue a bit when Victor
showed up. It was unlikely that he had come in a small boat and joined the
cruise in the middle of the creek to meet us alone; but he did say so. He
surely did know how to make people feel good. He did not realize how difficult
it was to make a new Bride feel good when the husband decides to doze off
through their first Marital Dhow ride!!
Music took a back seat, and the limelight
shifted to the head chef - an Indian by origin but born and brought up in Kenya.A makeshift barbeque and kitchen had formed itself by now - exactly under my
nose - and I am not exaggerating here. Meat pieces were tossed around, sauces
filled the air with an appetizing aroma, cubes of butter melted on pieces of
fillet and I had the bird's eye view to this entire performance. Food was
served in sea shells - the names of which are still Greek to me. They were
exotic in look and taste - but probably too intricate for us middle class small
towners. Or maybe the wine had killed a bit of the appetite.
No sooner than we had submitted ourselves
totally to the wine; that the announcement was made. I did catch just one word
from the entire dramatic monologue – honeymooners - maybe because the decibels went
up several notches at that word. A cake, a candle accompanied by not less than
five dozen pairs of eyes approached us. We can’t deny that the cake was nice,
in fact it actually brought back the romance that was killed by the booze; but
the applause, the hoots and the stares were extremely uncalled for. Victor
stretched it a bit too much I say.
Tired and a tad dehydrated, we conked off pretty
easily that night.
We finally got the courage to get into a matatu
(like a matador in small towns in India used for public transport) on the third
day in Mombasa. It had "god's miracles" written at the back and it
was arguably so; not just due to the price they quote. Our matatu raced with
another matatu for the passengers at every stop; refused to use brakes till
murderous proximity to the other vehicle or pedestrian and hardly stayed in the
correct track but took frequent detours to bypass the morning traffic and advanced
in god speed.
Our driver chap was a “funny fella”. He had
mastered the technique of speaking to the driver in the car behind, without
turning his head even once. He would simply stare at the side view mirror and
talk to the “funny fella” behind; just the way you would talk to the mirror. "Marketing
while at the wheel" was his second strength. He decided to keep pace with
a bike, just so he could persuade the lady in the back seat to switch to a
matatu for daily conveyance from a bike (bikes are also a mode of public transport
in Mombasa). He even threatened to inform her parents!
Steering, swerving, teasing and almost banging;
we reached Mombasa Posta - where we were to board the next matatu-faster than
we thought. Or maybe the constant entertainment made us lose tab on the time. This
is a prominent junction for matatus; route 1 deviates from here and route 3
picks you up from here if you want to head towards the north beaches. Route 3
seemed less popular however. There weren't many matatus heading north; at least
not many with seats. We had two options, either stand inside an overfilled
Matatu bent from the waist and get off to make way for the disembarking
passengers at every stop. Or opt for a tuk tuk - a slightly breathier version
of the auto rickshaws of Mumbai. We chose the latter.
You have to bargain hard with the tuk tuk guys.
Hard is about 70percent slashed - yes, it is worse than Delhi too. The tuk tuk
took us to another junction; from where we took a breezy, empty matatu and
reached our destination - the Diani beach. A slight walk inside from where we
were dropped - we sighted the unending stretch of white sand - empty, serene
and so not India!! However, the feeling was soon overshadowed by a sudden
influx of touts. They had all kinds of ID cards hanging from their necks, could
speak several languages (but not Hindi, thank god we could still abuse them)
and had a knack for the epitome of annoyance. Whichever speck of shadow, or
touch of waves, or sight of shells we were turning to, well, they were there.
So, we decided to take their services of snorkeling and hoped for some quiet
time under water instead. We changed to favorable clothes and waited for our
"captain" to get the snorkel and shoes. Not to mention that while
seated so, one tout had extracted a promise off us that we will have coconut
water from him on return. A similar promise was extracted by another skinny
creature with protruding eyes, that his sister will make braids for me for
500KSH. Now we were told we will be dropped much ahead for lunch on the way
back from snorkeling. So we figured promising is the easiest way to sod the
annoyance off. We were happy not to realize this wasn't the last meeting.
Captain rowed us to a coral reef. It was almost
like a dance floor for the sea life. It was as if all kinds of them from varied
locations had swam, floated or snorkeled to this party scene; where they were
dancing and making merry now. Every step was a new creature you could have
almost killed or in turn could have been bitten/stung by. But we don't shy away
from parties. So we willingly joined this celebration of sea creatures on the
reef. We clicked snaps with them, discussed their adventures and super-heroic
abilities, even held hands and did a bit of jazz with few (the one who asked me
to dance had hands all over his body and called himself the sea urchin - can't
say I enjoyed it much). But overall it was a good company; we even brought a
few of them home (for a price of course). The coastal man in my husband more
than woke from slumber and quite impressed the captain with his knowledge.
Snorkeling looks easier than it actually is,
unless your captain knows the exact simple tips that make it as simple as it
seems. That you should stay away from the shallow areas; that you should keep
checking if the pipe in your mouth piece is straight up; that you should stay
keep distance from the rocky patches; and that you should not step on a sea
urchin - simple they are but of immense value. You will eventually figure them
out, but after wasting a good portion of the precious 20 minutes you pay heavily
for, or after upsetting someone from the sea a bit too much for your safety. I
believe our captain believed in learning on job; worse still he did not take a
single photograph of ours. I suppose I am more upset about that bit.
Well, adventures are meant to be memorable and
so it was for both of us. I will never forget the sea urchins within a couple
of inches below my face gingerly swaying its spikes, as if trying to reach me
(they had almost succeeded). Bedanta will never forget that he was on the verge
of drowning in his maiden honeymoon trip. He did venture out a bit too away
from the coast, but did not realize it to be a mistake till he got tired and breathless
and felt the need to take a break. But, to his surprise, he was in the sea; and
hence the possibility of a floor to stand on was non-existent. It was not a
time to be lazy now, frantic movement of limbs and a SOS for every molecule of
oxygen in his body is what pushed him to the rock floor a few feet away.
Needless to add that by now, anyone who knows this survivor also knows about
this extraordinary tale of his survival.
Back on the beach, we were heading towards the
lunch place the Hawaii Restaurant. The long drive from the north Mombasa to the
south, followed by a taxing session of snorkeling had gotten our metabolism work
overtime. We were starving and even the constant kichh kichh of the half a
dozen touts walking along all the way did not deter us from our focus. Soon,
there was a verbal tussle amongst them, in their language of course. It was partly
like an escape of steam, partly like two or three cats unexpectedly encountering
two or three dogs, with a suggestion of a cobra waking up cross in the morning.
Whichever description you pick, it is clear it wasn’t music to our ears. Hence, we were quite relieved when they were
showed out of the Restaurant.
At the first instance, Hawaii was just the place
we were looking for. Tusker beer was being served at 200bucks. Food on the
tables around looked appetizing (not that we needed appetizers that day). The
waitress and the bar tender were smiling. And, the best of all, there was a
clean loo you can change out of your wet clothes in. But, at the second instance, the place was queer
too. You must have noticed that I did not include the crowd factor while
listing the right things about the place. Well, that's where the queerness
lies.
In a glance it was just a collection of people
beering and chilling. Very soon, however, the crowd around that was till now
camouflaged with the surrounding, soon started taking shapes. Each table had a
combination of either an old firang with two to three local girls
(school going kinds) or a naïve looking boy (school going look again) flanked
by a Diani man and a woman on either side. I hate to admit, but I did go
through a culture shock; I hope it is worth the admission. We had lunch in a
trance, the way you should have lunch in such restaurants. We spoke little,
tried to notice every movement without being noticed; had to fight the doubts
about the most obvious gestures, without making it obvious that we were
fascinated; and had to put an effort not to stare and exclaim aloud at the effortless
glances and loud laughter around. It turned out to be the most open ended lunch
in my life - casual v/s moral; sin v/s sensation; “So What?” v/s “WTF!?”
Lunch done, we took the same route and sequence
of vehicles backwards. We were still speaking less and thinking more; if you
don't count the meaningful looks and smiles we exchanged every now and then
through our matatu ride back. We both had a “small town east India thrown into
a metro” kind of minds; so I am guessing we had similar thoughts going on.
The busy streets outside worked as good
distractions though. Mombasa streets abound in shops like Shah Brothers and Patel
Traders - though there are these areas in almost every country in the world
where you cannot throw a brick without hitting a Shah or a Patel. Billboards were a more interesting
study. There were sambusas and veg springrolys on offer, schools from lore to
primary, dola shops and splendided combination!!
Then, there was this obsessive love the Africans
have for music to distract you. There is music from some source or the other
everywhere you go; even in the middle of the sea, where you have the music of
the waves. All matatus had a radio attached - a channel called classic 105
playing non-stop. Even the public bikes (yes, bikes too were a popular public
transport) too had a music system attached to it! We surely appreciated the
music composers; though we could not appreciate the lyricist much.
We stepped into our room by dusk. We will
remember the way back for the optimum combination of conveyances we employed -
starting with ferry - then matatu - then tuk tuk - and last patch by tripling
on a bike. And guess what, our bike was playing “Ek Do Teen!!”
Dinner that night was out and out local cuisine.
It worked as a crash course for me. Kaimati and Mahamri are kinds of buns -
soft and slightly sweet. Katles is a kind of a cutlet made of minced meat or
boiled egg. Then, there was Maharagwe Schuma - fine cut spinach sautéed in a
small amount of oil; which was the best dish on the table. Ugali, that looked
like an oversized idly and tasted slightly coarser; was not new to us. Githery
is more of less green peas floating in a lot of brown water, very avoidable. We
tasted everything though. I cant say we walked back to the room feeling "I
will never forget that dinner"; but it surely was a "been there ate
that" kind of an achievement.
What fascinated us more than the Mombasa food
was the Mombasa style. I cannot recall a single person dressed shabby.
Sometimes it bordered at being gaudy, but never un-kept. This was teamed with
the abundance that crowned them - the rebellious and ambitious heap of hair on
their heads. Everyone kept their hair cropped short or braided - god knows what
it will turn to if you let them grow or leave them loose.
After sweating through the streets of north and
south Mombasa, we decided to do as the Kenyans do in Kenya. Next morning was a blank
in our schedule. So, we decided to visit the barber and get a hair style that
will keep the vendors and touts at bay. Babu went all off on his head while I
put my locks covering my eyes in beaded shackles. This, added to the tanned
skin, we were looking pure locals - so much so that people were surprised we
carried dollars.
It was in the parlour that we met an Africa
American lady who's favorite serial was Saat Phere, dubbed in English of course.
Apart from re-confirming several times that we understood her well; we were so
intrigued that we double checked it back in the hotel the first thing when we
reached back. It wasn't so much of a shock by then, considering that the entire
façade of the theatre in Nakumat (a mall close to our hotel) was covered with
posters from the latest Bollywood movies (Ram Lila and Dhoom 3 dubbed in English).
We had to remind ourselves we were miles away from home. The conversation
between the Mother-in –Law and the Sister – in –Law of Salon regarding the
friction between the couple in Saat Phere that evening was good fun though. The
accent was American, the voices akin to European, the sets and the wardrobe
Desi, the story about a girl with dark skin and the viewers African.
The afternoon's plan was to visit the Hellar Park.
The tan and the hair style did not work well on the tuk tuk guy and I suppose
he guessed well that we were unaware of the distance to the park. The park, as
it turns out, was walk able. It quite annoyed us to realize it too late, more
so because we thought we had mastered the art of bargaining, thanks to the
previous day's adventures. So, it wasn't surprising when we lost our cool
minutes later, when the fella tried to squeeze 100KSH more in the pretext of
taking us to the "main gate". What ensued was a typical argument that
got us back to Delhi for a while and left quite a bitter taste in our mouths.
As is usually the outcome of such fights, we decided to walk the rest of the
way.
The entry to the park was 1400KSH per head for
foreigners; but it is worth every penny. It is one thing to gape at the
wildness of the wild creatures in their wilderness; but it is another thing to
be able to touch them and feed them. It is one thing to jump into a ferry or
let your hair disappear in a snip to look like the locals but another thing to
watch a dozen crocodiles jump two feet in the air and a king cobra slowly
making a mouse disappear into him. Every time the giraffe stuck out their
dinosaur like tongues to lick in the snacks from our hands, the palms were left
wet and we were left smiling. Till we waited for the hippo couple to step out
of the water for their supper, while the crane flocked about, we were hardly
aware of their cuteness; till then we could only see their flat noses and fat
legs. Equally memorable was the 102 year old teenage turtle, serene and
contented in his home here; he reminded us that maybe if you let go off the
wheel; you might end up just where you belong. I believe we both realized, as
we walked back to the park gate, that we should take it a bit slower; because,
well, we are on a vacation. It might sound surprising, but you do tend to
forget that in an exciting place. We walked back leisurely to our hotel and
parked ourselves on two cozy chairs for the evening, with the sea stretching in
front of us and two Captain Morgan on the table. Life is good, after all.
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The bus drive from Mombasa to Dar Es Salaam next
morning was far from comfortable. No, it weren’t the roads. The bumping of the
city roads were soon exchanged for the crisp smoothness of the highway. But,
thanks to our impatient driver, we lurched and jolted terribly in spells. This
was another occasion when we realized that you cannot call
Africa a tourist friendly country in an instant. It will reveal itself to you
only if you stay on, against all odds. And once it does, it stays on in you.
Owing to the absence of a sea link as yet, we
had to vacate the bus in an hour or so to cross the sea to the Diani side. The
bus would be put in a vessel that will sail it across the sea. We were to take
a passenger ferry across and wait for it on the other side. We did have to hunt
around a bit for the pick-up spot on the other coast but we did not complain.
After a few years in Mumbai, it takes the most unusual to get anybody to raise their
eyebrows. Also, we met a young boy dressed like a monk, ready to guide (in fact
walk with) us till the spot without us even hinting the need. We assumed him to
be a co-passenger in the bus and hence were quite surprised to see him walk
away once we were delivered right and safe.
The agency staff was wearing shirts saying
"we are here to take you there"; correctly so because you are expected
to suppress any need in between here and there, be it nature’s call, hunger or
thirst. If they at all give you a chance to satisfy the above, everything other
than the fuel cost and the driver's salary has to be paid for - including the
usage of the world's most un-kept toilet. Well, you have to pay even to share
an umbrella with a local.
We did a most stupid thing here; we had exhausted
all our Kenyan shillings the night before since we were heading to another
country now. So we ended up tipping opportunist people for their undeserving
jobs their obscene demands in dollars. We just managed to avoid paying a dollar
for accepting a shelter under an umbrella between the coffee shop and the bus -
distance being about 20meters.
The
melancholy tunes akin to the Suraiya and Sahgal numbers from yesteryears made
the trip laden with melancholy. The
sun seemed to be stalking me; no matter which side I shifted to. Even
more difficult to survive through was the wait in the long queue at the
immigration office a few hours ahead of the ferry crossing. it was a small cottage
with two small windows with wooden hinged double doors that invariably reminds
you of the government quarters from small towns. The good thing about the
windows, however, was that it provides a peep into the room with a blaring TV.
The native movie playing there was gripping enough to make me forget the long
wait. The other good thing about the window is that the person on the other
side of it had a particular liking for tourists. The more local you looked, the
lesser welcome you were at his window. The families with burqa clad women were
checked multiple times. The darker the skin, the more questions you were
expected to answer. The wildness of the curls in your hair is also inversely
proportionate to the number of times he will match your face with your
photograph. All in all, my interview at the window was too short-lived to give
me enough time to enjoy the thickening plot of the movie to unravel enough.
Only
one important thing happened during the rest of the journey; and it was that
that nothing happened. The landscapes outside fast changed from outstretched
farmlands to thorny shrubs outlining the road to cluster of rural huts. Between
the amusing plots that Sherlock Holmes was getting into (sitting right here on
my lap) and the fading in and the fading out of nostalgic frames outside; I was
fading into deep sleeps and amusing dreams of my own.
We
were met by the coordinator of the agency at the last stop. The poor chap was
told a wrong meeting place and he had gone through a whole lot of running
around before he reached us. He was not the sort of bloke you would put out
mats with welcome on it; but the big fat man did arouse some sympathy with his
sob story. He seemed not so interested to talk; which was quite expected after
the morning’s confusion. However, we did get a brief history of the place off
him. Shortly after independence, Tanganyika and Zanzibar merged to form the
nation of Tanzania in 1964. One-party rule came to an end in 1995 with the
first democratic elections held in the country since the 1970s. Zanzibar's
semi-autonomous status and popular opposition have led to two contentious
elections since 1995, which the ruling party won despite claims of voting
irregularities.
He
dropped us at the sleep inn; just about a km away from the bus stop. We had a
ferry to catch for the Zanzibar islands the next morning. Hence a long hot
water bath, couple of glasses of wine and a sumptuous meal is all we could
think of other than a brilliant night's sleep. The hotel was just rightly
facilitated and budgeted for a night's stay in between travels. Feeling
immensely rejuvenated after the bath, we stepped down for the second demand.
This, however, was not as easy as we thought; thanks to the deserted streets
and the almost non-existent street lights.
Hence,
we decided to stick a radius of 500 meters round the Hotel and settled for a
Chinese place swarming with an eclectic mix of fans. We all know the feeling of
the first few gulps of beer after a terrible day's work. That enjoyed, we did a
rushed order for food and was eagerly waiting for the feeling of the first few
morsels of food after a famished day. This, however, was not so easily enjoyed.
The meal took ages to reach us. We repeated to several waiters how long our
wait has been; but to no avail. Utterly and genuinely bored of the wait (and
mind you we were too tired to show our weight around), we decided to cancel the
order and shift to a “(fast)er” food place. And the situation was corrected in
no time. It was amusing to see how the overbearing manner of the staff changed
suddenly to that of a child avoiding yells of its teacher. We tucked into it
like a tapeworm that’s been on a diet for weeks. There was no mistaking the
gleam in our eyes as we downed the last mouthful, paid hurriedly straight at
the counter and flopped into our beds.
Early
next morning, we started for the ferry ward after a buffet breakfast. The
passenger ferries from Dar to Zanzibar are managed by Azam Group with their 4
big shuttles Kilimanjaro (I-IV). The Group enjoys almost a monopoly in the
sector. The office is neat and the crowd is quite well managed. I can’t deny
that there were long queues and a “Benetton campaign kind of” mix of skin
colors; but these were unavoidable features in any tourist spot in this continent.
The
seating area for foreign tourists was separated from the one for local public
with a metal grill. The division of waiting spaces was exactly equal; yet
highly prejudiced. So, we watched from a sparsely occupied VIP space the
tossing and nudging locals trying to wait in peace in a space occupied till a little
more than the last inch. It was a similar situation in the ferry as well. “We”
sat in an AC cabin with documentaries playing on huge screens to entertain us
while “they” had to be happy with plastic chairs in the open with the sea
breeze for enjoyment. The disparity of us and them was not new to me; but I had
always been on the other side till now. This was my time to realize that it
might not be too easy to be comfortable on the other side either; unless you
are habituated by years of being the First World (the Europeans did not look
bothered). And it also made me think if the gains at times are bigger on the
side with lower value.
The
vessel set off almost on time. The blue-ness around gave us much opportunities
to take some healing photographs. The collage of cruisers, ferries, cargo
vessels and small boats created a hierarchy of its own. The islands around aroused
romantic thoughts. The gushing waves created by the propellers were no less
than a performance and had 2 dozen eager spectators fighting for space in the
deck. The kids stood mesmerized, staring at the blue stretch, as their dads
added to their vocabulary the names of each dot in this stretch. In fine, the sea, without moving an inch or
sending a reminder mail, kept us busy. For lazier spells, there was the story
of the Bengal tiger Sita playing on the TV. For still lazier spells, there was
no dearth of sleep.
The
exit was quick, the luggage intact and the immigration officials were cordial.
We were starting to feel, the day journey was wrapping up most ideally, when we
were unable to locate an escort. There were several extremely misguiding
outstretched hands as we approached the gate. They greeted us just as we would
expect the escort to. We barely avoided falling into the trap once. We tried to
reach the coordinator, but in vain. A frantic search began, that ended with a
feeling that the soup is about to close on you and there is no life jacket in
sight. There were only touts all over; approaching annoyingly close and coaxing
in chorus without a pause. We finally waded our way through the tout heap and
figured our way from a fruit vendor. Fortunately, the walk turned out to be a
short one but the frustration lingered.
The
boiling kettle oozed easily at the reception desk of Tembo Hotel. There seemed
to be no money paid in the Hotel. Now
was definitely the time to yell at the coordinator. But guess what; Bedanta started off with a
“sorry to bother you on a Sunday”. My ears went numb, the words were incoherent
but I knew that he gave the feeblest of speech I had ever known. In an instant
I snatched the phone. Babu had opened his mouth to say something in his usual
nice manner but I rolled over him like a tidal wave. I was audibly tired, else
I believe that I, when in good voice, could have been heard in several
adjoining travel agencies in the vicinity of the one working for us.
The
Manager understood the frustration and took a most judicious decision to upgrade
us to the Honeymoon Suit. The room went a long way in pacifying me. Every
detail in it, the pictures, the rugs, the wall hangings, all pointed to a taste
that was prim, formal and solid like the century which gave it birth. I was
still a bit gloomy though; still not gathering rose blooms, as they say. So
Babu called for two tall glasses of Coke (alcohol was not allowed in this hotel,
hence we settled for the next worst thing). It alone could not have done the
Magic, unless the third or the fourth sip in the balcony was accompanied by a
whiff of strong, fresh, bracing coast air; that tickled us up all over. The
light drizzle that followed did the Magic in a most definitive manner.
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It
would have been criminal to be confined to our rooms now. We took hurried bath
and set out. The sights seemed all the more beautiful to the eyes which were
weary of the duns and drabs and slate greys of Mumbai and the mind troubled by
the thought that hurdles can come up in a Honeymoon trip too. We walked along
the coast, inhaling the fresh morning air and rejoicing the music of the birds
and bumped into this place called Monsoon Café.
The Monsoon Café wanted to be different in
everything about it. There were floor cushions instead of chairs, chappals that
you had to change to when entering, candles instead of lights, beads instead of
curtains, local melodies instead of chartbusters and a very jovial next door
looking girl taking orders instead of an uniformed waiter. And, better still,
they were serving Swahili food. It was a ground floor 1BHK converted into an
eating place. Hence, the living room became the reception, with a flimsy book
rack containing an assortment of maps and novels on one side and a short shoe
rack on the other containing the chappals. The large bedroom was transformed
into this collage of beads, tapestry and bamboo work, complimented by the dim
lighting and cozy cushions. In short, this place complimented and completed the
romance set by the weather outside. The place was discovered by our Lonely Planet
before us; but finding the place with just the apt mood, is also a find in
itself. We couldn't help tapping our backs.
As
the mood went up beat, we dint feel like going back to the hotel. We decided to
take a walk around the stone town and check out the old fort. The stone town, I
believe, should be akin to the Nariman Point area about 20 years back. I can
only tell the visual similarity; and not about the vibes of course. The curves
of the queen's necklace and the grandeur of the Gateway of India was of course
missing; but the path along the beach with a few cut into the sand, the boats
with flags stationed in a scattered manner, the love birds facing the sea, the
4 story buildings with a reminiscence of Moroccan architecture, the souvenir
shops placed randomly and street shops selling hot quick bites (replace pani-puri
with kebabs and you have the Girgaum Choupati); everything seemed familiar.
The
lonely planet had a highly zoomed in map of the stone town with at least a
dozen tourist spots marked on it. However, when we started exploring, we
realized you can cover every corner of this town in an hour on foot, the dots
on the map in our guide book were half non-functional, half a mere concept and
the rest can be skipped without having to miss anything in life. The Museum seemed
to have not been blessed with any attention for at least a decade. There was an
auditorium though that had performances every Thursday, which we would have
been glad to catch if we were not moving out of the island on a Tuesday. The Fooradhani
Gardens was supposed to be an open air food court by the sea; another example
of a good idea screwed by faulty execution. The old fort barely managed to
stand on its ground. The inside of the fort was brutally scooped out and an
obscenely expensive souvenir market replaced it like a parasite. In a few
words, if you are a tourist who like to make a list of "things to
see" every morning and like to tick them off every evening, Stone Town
might not amuse you much.
But
if you are a tourist who like to soak in the vibes of the place, stroll or laze
around till the place grows a bit in you and watch how the buzz there is
different from here, one who prefers to hunt out a tiny local food joint rather
than head to a KFC and chooses a destination for the quietness, queerness or
the cultural richness rather than number of dots on the map, Stone Town is the
place. We like the place so much that we got a bit inspired by its lethargy. We
too decided to take it slow here and after a lazy chit chat on the beach over
coffee, we decided to head to this place called Tito - highly recommended by
the Lonely Planet.
Apart
from the vibes, Lanes were another defining feature of this place. Unless you
set foot in one; you can never figure how many more it leads to. A bird’s eye
view of the road map will be a collage of rectangles and squares. However, the
destinations within each lane; be it a souvenir shop or a restaurant; could be
all haphazard. Some could be on the first floor, some could have the entrance
from the other side, and some could be inside another. It was almost like an organized
chaos. We, however, were back in an island of English speaking population and
hence every wrong turn could be laughed off as an experience while exploring
the place.
Tito
was a small place on top of a relatively noisier and bigger place. But the small
and the quiet is what we have started to prefer. Owing to the location of the
sign above eye level at the meeting point of two dimly lit lanes; we would have
surely missed it, had it not been for Happy standing on the balcony greeting
and welcoming passing tourists. Apart from being fully fair to her name (at
least in the eyes of the tourists); Happy was just the hostess you would like
to visit every now and then. She won't
intrude yet be attentive; won't impose her new recipe on you yet coax you into
going for a certain dish; she would invite you in right from the road yet not
look like she had nothing better to do or no one better to entertain. Basically
she was not like a Sharma aunty who you would have to call in advance and find
out if we would be in her way if we visit, then give her an exact time and
purpose for the visit; stick to the our words and then perhaps carry a box of
sweets too which she would serve with the black tea she would hopefully manage
to prepare to entertain the hosts. And then she was not like the Barua uncle either
who, if in a position to grab you, will certainly detain you for hours, talking
about his achievements despite the adverse conditions during his growing up
years.
Once
our table was adorned with the wine, the Captain Morgan, the fish and chips and
the huge pizza - we got into a bit of conversation with Happy. She told us how she travels for an hour every
day from home to work. An office vehicle takes the staff back home in case of
delay. How the tourism season has expanded as well as improved in the last few
years. Baring about 3 very hot months in a year, the place gets a regular
influx of tourists and hence a regular inflow of money for the locals. How the
inflow of tourists have shifted from Europe towards Asia leading to different trends
of inflow, the demands, the destinations and even the currency. The talk of currency
led us to talking about bargaining - we had come across a few small shops on
the way selling souvenirs and we wanted to know if it is the right place to
spend our dwindling Tanzanian shillings. Happy was happy to give a step by step
demonstration of the best bargaining tricks. The demo was entertaining but not
too enlightening for Indians. And was Stone Town the place to buy souvenirs
from? - We were still quite unsure about that.
An
evening well spent with the right company always leads to good sleep. The
morning was a rush though as we reached the airport at the nick of time for our
flight to the Pemba Island; with just a couple of minutes to spare for a
ciggerate. The Zanzibar airport was more or less a wide veranda with a row of
small rooms cutting it through right along the center. The rooms were more or
less the security check point, with 3 windows facing the land side drop off
points and 1 door facing the air side take offs. We picked our boarding passes
from the land side windows (they recycle boarding passes - the ones we got must
have carried ages of sweat and soil and thousands of finger prints); went
through the check-in in the adjoining room, and emerged on the other side
almost on the runway. The proximity to
the air side activity was dramatic. A very well kept and blooming garden is all
that we had in between. It was like having an airport in your backyard and you
decided to sip a cup of coffee sitting on your garden chairs before taking the
chartered to the nearby Island for a break.
The
8-seater aircraft was my first experience of the kind. But everything turned
out pretty simple. You give away your boarding passes to the person in civil
dress with no badge whatsoever- there are no stamped tags to be checked. There
are no overhead bins to stow away you luggage in; so you just drop your bags
near the door and pick the seat of your choice. The pilot looked like a
teenager and himself explained the safety instructions after a casual greeting.
The flight too was pretty simple - it was an hour long beauty of the magical
blue sea to soak in; till the heart skipping final turn onto the runway brings
you back to the land.
The
person waiting for us at the Pemba airport was a brisk little person, very
dapper and quick, with a ready tongue - Yusuf, who proclaimed to be the guide
too. Pemba Island is the northernmost of
the archipelago that makes up Zanzibar. It, however, is more undulating, more
green and with far less tourists. During peak season, however, many of its resorts are in business, often
catering to those that come in for the snorkeling, scuba diving and water
sports. The waters around Pemba are ideal for these activities.
Yusuf
swiftly put us in an AC car and we drove out of the airport premises along with
what sounded like his introductory speech. The speech was not just entertaining
but also gave us the clues to decode his accent in the subsequent monologues. He
would use right for left and left for right but the choreographed head turning
performance accompanying the blunder prevented us from assuming a church to be
a Zoo. Every time something seemed to tell me that he was about to give
evidence of a wider vocabulary, I was sadly mistaken. He would also use an
"I" at the end of each word; "Roadi","touristi"
being some instances, which did not handicap the communication much and in fact
added a lyrical touch to his narrative. We were, however, reminded of toasties
and realized we were starving.
In
the whirl of our incessant activity that followed, it is difficult for me
recall names and the exact sequence of events from that day. Sometimes I might
forget to round off my narratives before starting to allude to the next and miss
giving those final details which the curious might expect. I will, however, try
to be as fair to the details as possible. In rapid succession we passed through
the villages Chake Chake, Gomdani, Palle and then took a right from Ole village
for flying fox sighting. The villages looked like being uprooted from the
interiors of Kerala and placed here. Fishing and fruit farming, we were told,
are the major jobs for the villagers here. The guide for this first stop, a 15
year old school drop-out named Ali, emitted a sense of pride in belonging to
the only village that serves as an abode to the endangered flying fox. We
walked through a series of farmlands of Maize, Casava, Pineapple and lavish kitchen
gardens, until we stooped under a century old tree and emerged into a dense
forest.
Flying
fox, an endemic mammal and a critically endangered species, known as Popo in
Swahili, is the attraction of this village. Ali pointed out the flying fox
hanging in thousands from a tree nearby. I could not help feeling extremely
lame for expecting a fox that could fly. This creature looked almost looked
like a bat; unless you zoom in really close when they start looking like the face
of a fox. We soon realized there were hundreds of similar trees around with
thousands of these creatures hanging from each of them. A machan was in place
to give us good view into each tree.
The
next in the itinerary was the Ngezhi forest. We drove back the same way till we
took a left this time. We reached the forest check post and here we were introduced
to the Ranger - Sulaiman. He would not let us walk into the forest till we give
our ears to the brief introduction that he insisted on giving, in his office,
aided by the two dozen photographs and newspaper clipping he had pinned on the
board here.
We
weren’t very sure when initially told of the plan but Yusuf managed to make us
understand in a roundabout manner that it is always a good policy to stop
babbling when a man eight foot six in height and proportionately broad tells
you to. We took our seats on the only bench in his office and listened
attentively to his lecture; like when the dogs do when they put a paw on your
knee and look up into your face, as if there is something they would like to
ask/add but would rather let you have your say this evening. Thankfully the
lecture was not abnormally long. He kept it crisp. I believe years of practice has
omitted the “er” stuff from the narrative and has also made him realize that
the same things can be communicated in one third the number of sentences most
of the time. Now was the time to begin our walk through the forest.
It
was strange -in the very depths of a cluster of villages; with miles of human
habitation on every side; you can feel the iron grip of nature in this strength
and to be conscious that we were no more than small dots on the Map of this
forest was edging on being scary. It was a lovely trip-the dainty green of the
spring around, the virgin blue of the sky above and the awareness of the busy
villages about.
Sulaiman
knew his stuff. He rattled off the scientific names and the colloquial names of
the trees around with equal comfort. He also pointed out the application of
their sap; bark etc. in medicines, cosmetics and much more; and this made the
anecdotes quite interesting. More interesting was the fact that Babu seemed to
know more than Yusuf and the driver, thanks to his nature friendly grandmother
and her elaborate achievements in the back yard of their house in Bhadrak,
Odisha. It will not be an exaggeration if I say there is a possibility of a botanical
garden, with an entry fee of nothing less than 10bucks, in that very back yard.
An entrepreneur-minded Gujarati would have actualized this idea by now.
A few
pieces of abandoned rusted pieces of metal soon came in sight as we wound
around the first turn; at least that is what it seemed like at the first
glimpse. Suleiman informed us that these were left over pieces from a log
cutting machine once owned by an Indian known as Patel. For the rest of the
story, I and babu could actually put a face to the man behind the story; after
all how different can a Patel in Ngezhi look from a Patel in India. He used to
own this machine in the early 1900s and was fast rising in wealth, when the ban
on lumbering came along. Proving to be an out and out Gujarati; he tried every
means of evading the law and continued to run the machine in the heart of his
mines till the very last moment. By that time, there wasn't a possibility of
transporting or hiding his loot and he had to flee the country leaving behind
his metallic counterpart in the crime. The latter is a stark misfit in the
environment now but the jungle became its permanent home hence. After a century
of existence here, I wonder if the machine too might have grown roots binding
it to the forest land by now. I wonder, if we try to shift it to a horticulture
museum, will it too bleed and feel uprooted.
The
next stop in the forest was an open patch with a supposedly deep water body
right at the center. Suleiman warned us of alligators in the water body and
snakes amongst the tall grasses around. He even gave a vivid description of the
Alligator who sits motionless and yet is aware of every movement around; like a
spider in the center of the web that knows every quiver. The talk of the snakes
roused creeping, shrinking sensations although they were nowhere visible
around. I could actually imagine the
slithery, gliding venomous creatures, with their deadly eyes and wicked
flattened face all around me; I suppose Suleiman added the right facial
expressions and used the right amount of Drama. The place was deserted however,
and there was no sign of life around save for a circling and screaming Vulture.
As we
walked back to the car, lunch is what lurked in our minds. Neither of us had
really broken our fast and hence it was not until we consumed some fruits and
sipped some juice in the Pemba beach that we were sufficiently thawed to speak
and I to see. We soon noticed that we were amidst one of the most beautiful
beaches that can ever be. A seemingly never ending stretch of white sand was
abruptly taken over by an almost never ending stretch of blue green sea; that
again was suddenly triumphed over by a truly never ending stretch of blue sky.
Our companion
here was a group of school kids who were on a Picnic – settled in the tree
shades to our left. They were too engrossed in the Lays Chips and the blaring Bollywood
songs to take any notice of us. But we couldn’t help marveling the uncanny
combination. A beach with no hawkers or crowd and a sea that has retained its
true blueness combined with a school picnic listening to Dekh Hai Pehli
Baar" from Saajan and plastic packaging thrown all over along the outskirts
of the beach. It was almost like a scene from Africa in front of us and a
typical scene from India to our left.
The
journey back to the Airport was a smooth one and very soon red earth turned
ruddy; brick houses were replaced with grey slate and the kitchen gardens
flanking cottages became bigger and the contents more exotic, suggesting richer
inhabitants; till the final turn dropped us at the Airport. The flight would
have been a reverse play of the flight in the morning; had it not been the
Pilot’s kindness to invite me to sit on the seat next to his. What followed
might be the first and the last of an experience of its kind for me. The Pilot
could figure that (I required his help in even tying the half a dozen safety
belts before he seated himself next to me). I felt a slight resentment at being
considered not capable of figuring out things on my own but you don’t want a starched
white shirt and a pair of aviator shades flying the aircraft you are in, to
take things in ill part with you. I was
thinking of the cock-pit even in the rear seat of the Toyota that took us back
to Tembo Hotel.
This
was the last evening in Zanzibar. A quiet drink together was in our minds and
we did not have to spell it out. We had been together for too long to be shyly
discovering each other's secrets. Even then the long chat in the evening
staring at the sea, breathing in the cool breeze helped us drop the last of our
veils and speak with an honesty that only a true companionship can encourage.
We made the most of so wonderful a setting.
We
had booked the spice tour for the next day. It was a damp morning; when we
stepped onto the balcony for our fist cups of coffee, we saw the cold winter
sun over the line of dhows in the far end of the sea. After a quick breakfast, we stepped out to
meet the man who had just called to tell us that the Group and the car for the
tour were ready for us. We had bumped onto a very favorable deal through our
driver the previous day. A keen drizzle was constantly on; so that the streets
were nearly deserted -not a single cab splashing its way like the night before.
We nestled ourselves further into our sweat shirts, for the air was quite cold.
The
Group who were to join us for the tour was already getting to know one another
around the car that was to take us for the tour. We two hardly got a chance to
know the others; we simply hopped into the Japanese family car and speeded into
the wet streets. We soon got to know that the 3 girls sitting behind us were
from Europe and 2 of them were soon to be doctors who were interning in
Tanzania for the past 2 months. On the verge of their return, one’s little
sister was visiting and they were ticking off some of the things to do in the
country. The couple sitting next to us was from the US and seemed to be
holidaying with the least planning possible. They seemed to have ended up in
Zanzibar by sheer impulse and sounded quite clueless on their return date
either.
The
villagers who greeted us at the end of the drive came across as flamboyant
sorts. I have seen people who are poorly dressed but yet did not appear to be
poor. In this case, they were surely poor but yet did not appear to possess a
poor wardrobe. Rainbow shirts, funky shades, tropical printed Bermuda and flip
flops with trendy graphics; the sight was straight out of a Bhoosi dam on a
monsoon Sunday.
The
tour, I believe, was a refresher course for Babu; somewhat like a chapter you
were thorough with at one point and the class is challenged to a revision test.
Not only do you excel in it; but memories also come flooding back to you and you
bask in the glory. Even the Guide was a bit offended by the special anecdotes Babu
was adding to his standard speech on each plant, tree and spice. To me,
everything was de novo; I had no cut and dried story to warp my mind. The Group
soon started posing queries for Babu rather than the Guide. They say half the
world doesn't know how the other three quarters live; this day sure proved the
opposite for me. Nobody could have figured the Tourist from the Guide at this
point. If Babu would have said we put ginger in filter coffee, the group
without batting an eyelid; would have nodded and noted down.
It
was the ideal weather for a nature trail till it was drizzling lightly, hence
keeping the heat and sweat at bay. We were doing just what we should ideally do
in such weather (apart from sipping beer in an open air bar next to the pool); that
is getting mildly wet in the rain amidst whistling trees and chirping birds.
However, the sky soon started turning more and more inky. And soon enough there
came a noise like fifty seven trucks going over a wooden bridge, and we felt
that an immediate move would be judicious. We rose and gathered speed towards
the hut about 100 meters away. The rain kept us stranded in this hut for the
next half hour. The group did not seem to mind – they seemed eager to chat, click
snaps of chicks, ask questions about the village and so on. Rain subsided a
while later, and we finished the last leg of the tour faster than the other
legs.
By
the sheer number of quiet smoking breaks he took; I could see that the tour had
taken Babu back in time – a time when he would assist his grandmother in her
kitchen garden; he would help his mother dry the spices and pickles on the
terrace that has become our bedroom now; and a time when he would actually
apply the botanical knowledge shared by his Science teacher in his gardening
pursuits. And it surely made the tour worth it.
Equally
worth the money was the lunch waiting for us in a round-shaped-half-walled
structure closer to the village. We had
a green leafy vegetable and a gram with rice; not sure if it was the appetite
or the unadulterated form of the ingredients in all the recipes; we all happily
hogged on the basic lunch.
We
had plans to sail out the same day back to Dar-Es-Salaam, and when the time
came to leave, it felt too soon. At times like this, I really feel the urge to
be there as a traveller, rather than a tourist; if you know what I mean. Wish I had more time to take in the sights
and explore the unknown; time and flexibility that can turn planned holidays
into amazing adventures.
The
journey across the sea got us back in the city that scared us in our first
visit. Even Lonely Planet advises tourists to “avoid walking alone on the
streets of Dar”. Some of the streets, it says, are safe only on weekend
afternoons when they are crowded. However, this night being our last night in
this city, we decided to have the courage to venture out a bit and chose Al-Basha
from Lonely Planet for the adventure. As suggested by the book, we opted for
hummus and a Lebanese snack platter – easy thumbs up it was. We unanimously decided
to follow the book more often once we tasted the food. We had a 7am flight to
catch to Livinstone the next morning and we had a lot of sleep to catch on.
Hence, what followed was an uneventful night at Sleep Inn.
The
flight to Livinstone was on time; so except for a few souvenirs we checked at
the airport and very wisely decided not to buy; I have nothing much to write
about. Babu is usually fun during
journeys. His friends too consider him a cheery reveler during trips. However,
as we boarded the flight, Babu was as ready to doze off as to fly out. There
were others around sitting with compressed lips and drooping eyes. I did not
take much time either to conk off.
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As we
stepped into Zambia, the scene sure had changed from white sands, palm trees
and turquoise water to hills, misty skies and better planned roadways. In our
thoughts too, the roar of the Lion was replaced by the roar of the Victoria
Falls and the tranquility of the Stone Town Sea was replaced by the calmness of
the Zambezi River. The person meeting us at the Airport was visibly someone
fond of starchy food who had decided to stop watching his calories long back. He
had lots of information on the place and we struck up a good conversation with
him. Unlike Tanzania, language and communication are not areas of struggle in
Zambia – which was a happy relief.
The town,
it seems, used to be a small cluster of villages till the Victoria Falls was
discovered here. Before that, for centuries it had remained unchanged. David
Livingstone was the first to publicize the falls in 1855, although probably not
the first to technically discover them. He was actually tracked down in 1869 on
the shores of Lake Tanganyika, having not been heard of for a very long time
because he was holed up in bed suffering from Malaria. The discovery made the
Town famous but was still not considered an attractive option by the local
population to settle down until fairly recently. We were told that within the
last few years its picturesque appearance and situation have attracted a number
of well to do residents, whose villas peep out from the woods around. A number
of shops have come into being to meet the demands of the settlers. Occupations
allied to Tourism sprang up here and there; and in no time the Town started
looking like just another city.
The Hotel,
The Zambezi Sun, was massive and sumptuous, opposite a spectacular
colonial railway track that had a steam train passing through every 2 hours. The
place was a strong example of Europe meets Africa; which comes complete with
big white umbrellas available at the reception to be carried by the guests
every time they step out. No effort is spared to make it foreign, in the
waiters donning golf hats, the food, and the greetings. The décor and the
location, however, is a saving grace. The surroundings seemed leafy and lively
and the rooms were vibrant with African motifs and hues adding character
wherever possible. The aesthetic sense of the decorator was visible in even the
minutest detail - like the frame of the mirror or the menu card. Not to add
that the huge raised bath tub hiked its desirability several folds.
The
Victoria Falls was just about 200 meters from the Hotel and hence the roar of
the falls was a permanent feature through our stay here. However, you have to
walk the distance to experience the cloud-like pall of spray that rise high
into the air. Mosi-oa-tunya is the local name: the smoke that
thunders. Shortly after we checked into our room and freshened up; we
took a walk down to the falls which are highly impressive, especially because
it was the Monsoon season here and the incessant rain made it difficult for us
to visually figure where the drops from the Falls end and the drops from the
Clouds begin. We were mesmerized. The main fall claims to be 1700 meters wide,
dispersing 143 million gallons per minute, figures so mind-boggling that
further calculation seems pointless. The photographic opportunities, too,
are countless.
As we
spotted the Helipad on a nearby hill, the temptation to take a helicopter ride
over the falls was too great. I had never been in one ever and the view
of such a geographic spectacle was an irresistible temptation; but sadly our
trip was already packed to the brim. The helipad was dominated by an enormous
Baobab tree. The guide, Joshua, mentioned that the Baobab is a commonly
spotted and a revered tree in this continent. These have thick trunks and
spindly branches, causing the locals to say that they were thrown by God on to
the earth only to land upside down.
Zambia
has an agreeably cool climate in December with occasional showers to add to the
romance. Thanks to the weather, we headed towards the bar without really
discussing the plan of action. Over two glasses of Beer, the topic somehow veered
towards the movies and the Bollywood music we grew up on. And we travelled back
on music - the cheapest airline. Just when we were aboard this time machine
that shows up every time you are genuinely happy; we suddenly jerked ourselves
back to the present. Like most of the Indian tourists do, we soon started
feeling guilty that we had come this far, spent so much in the travel and here we
were whiling away our time doing nothing. So we decided to check out the flea
market we had seen on the way to the Falls.
We
had to brush off the nostalgic high we had reached because we were about to
bargain hard. Bargaining becomes a bigger challenge when travelling to other
countries. If we lost ten bucks in Mumbai,
we would never notice it. But here it becomes a big issue; with getting ripped
off comes as an assumption, that you are not from here- that you are a foreigner.
This being our last stop; we unfolded our wish list quite generously. However,
this did not mean loosened fist; and I believe we both will agree that we did
an excellent job in bargaining. Even today, when I look at the treasures we
picked from here, I would still agree with the preceding statement.
The
plan next day was to add in a Cheetah walk in our schedule before the scheduled
cruise in the Zambezi u River in the evening. However, we soon realized that
rain and vacation are like tea with pakoda. They work the best together. First,
you are forced to drop the itinerary for the day and do just what you had planned
this vacation to do – you chill. And then to chill under cloud and wind and
wonder is a different level of chilling altogether. You sit back, weary feet up
on the railing and chat till this charming combination releases all the pent up
tiredness in you.
It
was soon time to start for the Cruise of the evening. We were picked by a
Coordinator as charming as the weather. The wide rambling Zambezi, the fourth
longest river in Africa after the Nile, the Niger and the Congo, is calmness
personified; until it plunges over a series of huge basalt precipices on its
way to Mozambique and the Indian Ocean. The calm lap of the river works as
a home for numerous animals. The first we spotted was a group of Hippopotamus.
Babu was telling me that these grumpy creatures cannot swim but can hold their
breath under water for eight minutes, which can make spotting them a tricky
business, particularly since they are mainly nocturnal. Our Guide on board
added that a Hippo male has up to 20 females, lucky man, and they are responsible
for more deaths in Africa than any other animal, despite being
vegetarian. So, don’t get tricked by the cute pictures of their ears
poking above the waterline.
The
second model for my SLR was a crocodile. Totally motionless, the Nile or
freshwater crocodile can grow to 18 feet long and slow its metabolism so much
that it needn’t eat for three months. Eggs hatching at high temperatures turn
out to be male, and lower ones female. Several of them were visible imitating
rocks on small islands midstream or sulking on the bank behind a screen of
reeds. Other delights emerged on the way: the African Darter or
Snakebird, drying its wings in the sun after fishing; But the scene stealer was
a lone kid elephant crossing the river. All the Cruisers and boats made way for
the hero of the evening and unanimously applauded once it reached the other
side of the stream.
We
met an Indian middle aged couple who had come for the cruise for the second
time. Uncle soon turned out to be an enthusiastic fellow who took a strong
liking for Babu. The later; in turn; tried every bit to strengthen the feeling
with whatever he remembered of the hundreds of documentaries he had hogged on
in this lifetime. It took him about half a dozen animal facts to convince the
South African to declare that the “boy” was very “Learned and sound”. That
settled; Babu decided to settle back to his snacks and Captain Morgan; thank
god. However, the energy seemed to have shifted into Uncle and speech poured
forth from him with extraordinary vigour and earnestness; every point being
driven home by slapping of his hand upon the boat’s railing and a shower of
drunken spit attacking us. I suppose I was not alone in regretting Babu’s
recent enthusiasm at this point. The last I remember of Aunty’s face; I
remember them twisted.
A
good night’s sleep later, it was time to go back home. We had a flight to catch
the next morning to Nairobi and thence to Mumbai. It did bother but somehow
coming back to Mumbai has never been able to depress me too much. After all, I have found all the answers in my
life in Mumbai. Somewhere buried beneath all the hurdles it poses; is the city
that has a tight claim on my heart. On the 13th November, after a 2
Hour flight; we were at Nairobi Airport waiting lounge; when a stream of
Shuddhh Gujarati conversations hit our ears hard. It dawned on us that this was
the end of any opportunity of secret conversations in Hindi. This was the end
of being the stranger in a faraway land and hence the liberties to say, do,
love and judge anything. It was the end of a great Holiday!! And if you ask me
if there was anything missing in this otherwise perfect Holiday; there is just two
words come to my mind and they are migration and Kilimanjaro! Someday, I would
like to go back to this magnificent Continent and witness two million
wildebeest migrate and be a part of a Trek in Kilimanjaro.
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