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.

We had to finally stop complaining, when, the Toyota that drove us to the Masai turned out to be a convertible that was meant to be exclusively for us for the next 3 days. Till now, it had looked like a very regular mini-van; but the performance of opening up the roof and letting the breeze whizz shut our eyes did create a visible impact on our expression and our companion for the journey did not miss being satisfied with the sight. This was a first for me, followed by another first - within minutes of driving into the Mara; we spotted a female lion brooding under a bush with a dozen Zebra grazing coolly nearby. Soon enough we spotted more than a dozen lions snoring under another bush; now we were up and kicking. So unreal were the striped sheets of Zebra, the black sea of wildebeest, the million poetic eyes of the deer staring at us and the vast grassland with tall cacti and steady acacia trees that we had to keep reminding ourselves that we are not sitting in front of a TV set. The game was aptly concluded with a Giraffe eating out of an acacia tree right next to the road. It looked, ignored and posed for us and we have a snap capturing each of its move.

 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. 

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.

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.

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.

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 13^th 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.