Heading to Dar

 

Seated on a suitcase at the port, at the end of our honeymoon in Zanzibar, filling in departure forms, I puzzled over what to write under ‘occupation’.

“Housewife?” I asked. “Tourist, or Resident?”

“Just write tourist for now.” Ben said, scrabbling to find another pen. “We’re not residents yet.”

While I sipped water, keeping guard over our bags in the hot sun, Ben dealt with various customs officials who were stationed inside a row of wooden Nissan huts.

Earlier, we had returned to The Tembo hotel to fetch our suitcases. The hotel pool had recovered from the murky green colour of before to crystal clear blue. None of the beach cottage resorts we stayed at for the remainder of our holiday had swimming pools. In ninety degree heat and one hundred percent humidity, we’d had to wait for high tide for a chance to cool off. Tourism in Zanzibar in 1999 was more geared toward mid-life backpackers looking for adventure, rather than honeymooners poised with trepidation on the threshold of a new African life.

“Typical” said Ben, “Shame the pool wasn’t like that when we were staying here.”

“Do you think we’ll have time for a quick dip?” I asked.

After a swim and a protracted wait for sandwiches and chips, we learned from the hotel reception staff that leaving the island would be a longer process than expected.

“Apparently we have to clear customs again and need to leave at least half an hour for that. It seems crazy as we are just going over to Dar, in the same bloody country, but we’d better get a move on.”

The Tembo hotel staff weren’t wrong.

“You won’t believe this,” Ben said, shaking his head as he emerged from a third customs office at the port, sweat shined and angry.

“I had to do at least four bloody checks and pay another $50 each. At least we had our yellow fever certificates with us. That could have been a disaster. That health official was giving that other guy a very hard time.”

Our ferry was due to leave in twenty minutes.

“We’re going to have to get on if we are going to catch the boat.” Ben said, scooping up as much as he could carry and grabbing the handle of the biggest Samsonite suitcase. “Quick, let’s go.”

I got up quickly, strung my handbag and camera bag round my neck, grabbed another two suitcases and started speed walking through the dock, past container ships, over tram lines and past cranes, wondering where the hell the catamaran ferry was. There was no sign. A porter with a handcart offered to help us with our luggage but Ben waved him off, low on cash and thinking that the boat surely couldn’t be far but it was a long walk and further than we thought. Shoes hurting, sweating impossibly and by breaking into the occasional run we finally arrived at the ferry, which was seething with life as a crowd hurried aboard.

Passengers embarked and disembarked along a narrow ramp. Suitcases, brown boxes and storage bags fastened with sisal were moving up and down on heads. Caged animals, mattresses, fruit, bananas and coconuts passed by in baskets. Porters shouted. Relatives bid one another fond farewells. I tried to stay in the wake of Ben who was pushing forward through the crowd. A lady in black robes held her son above the fray. I noticed the boy’s Mickey Mouse sandals had flashing lights in the soles. A whistle blew above us and the crowd surged forward with renewed enthusiasm. Two porters offered to help scoop up our belongings and this time we accepted.

“Have you got any change Frances?” Ben asked urgently.

“Nothing.” I said, realising that I’d barely handled any cash for this entire trip.

We boarded, found a place to stow suitcases and went inside the cabin furnished with rows of upholstered white leather seats. TV screens blared overhead, screening Tanzanian dancers singing to local music in what looked like somebody’s back garden. We collapsed gratefully, hoping for the air conditioning system to kick into life.

“The bags should be okay back there shouldn’t they?” Ben asked as I disentangled myself from the camera and handbag around my neck.

“I’m past caring.” I said, red faced and melting, “We can check once we get moving. I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

“And someone from the office is going to meet us in Dar?” I asked, swatting a fat mosquito against the white leather, then cringing as it left a telling red smear.

“Yes, I told you. I sent them a fax from Matemwe bungalows last week. Said it was delivered, so it should be fine.”

The catamaran taxied out of Stone Town harbour, arcing out of the water as it gathered speed in the open water and finally cooling down the inside of the cabin. Having been anxious to get started on our new life and keen to escape Zanzibar, I was now properly nervous.

A porter in uniform swayed along the aisle, leaning over a trolley laden with packets of crisps, biscuits and a samovar of masala tea served in polystyrene cups. We waved away his offerings, instead taking sips from our bottles of water.

“I wonder what our serviced apartment will be like. If there will be any food when we get there?”

“I’m sure there’ll be something. Maybe even a restaurant. Don’t worry.”

It was a short hop across to the mainland and we arrived at the Dar es Salaam ferry terminal opposite St Joseph’s cathedral in an hour and a half. We had to get our passports re-stamped and luggage checked manually in a shed on the jetty, then were spat unceremoniously onto the pavement of Sokoine Drive.

Other ferry passengers filtered out through a waiting crowd of hawkers selling boiled eggs, bananas, cashew nuts, ice-creams and bottles of drinking water. Money changers and taxi drivers formed a barrier lining the pavement by the road where vehicles, double and triple parked, jostling for prime pick-up position. Just as when we arrived in Zanzibar airport, we searched hopefully for our names printed on pieces of paper held aloft by waiting drivers.

“Taxi? Taxi” We were asked every few seconds,

“No, no thank you.” We said, still confident we would be met.

But after half an hour or so the crowd had noticeably thinned. More alarming, it was late in the afternoon and we were running out of time before it would fall dark.

“What will your office car look like?” I asked.

“How the hell should I know?” Ben snapped, dark sweat patch down the back of his blue cotton shirt,  as he paced up and down the street. Now that most of the passengers had disappeared, even the hawkers were moving off.

“Look, this is silly now,” I said. “We can’t wait any longer. We’ll have to take a taxi while we still can. Do we know the name of the place we’re going?”

“It’s here somewhere,” said Ben, searching through papers, sheets of A4 drifting to the ground. “I don’t even think I’ve got enough cash for a taxi.”

Once we found the address of our apartment and expressed an interest in a taxi, a tout wearing a Manchester United football strip led us to an ageing driver wearing a prayer cap, who was chewing on a cocktail stick while leaning on the bonnet of a beaten up saloon car.

“Baobab Apartments?” Ben asked the driver. “Msasani peninsular?”

“Yes, yes Msasani.” The tout said with an abundance of willingness to pick up the fare.

A small crowd gathered around the car and its exotic passengers. Unnervingly, our cases were being manhandled by strangers into the boot of the car before we’d even settled a fare.

“How much?” Ben asked. “for Msasani?”

“Forty thousand.” The tout said, speaking for the driver again. The driver himself nodded.

“I only just have enough.” Ben said, peering into his money belt.

Much discussion ensued as, somewhat predictably, it appeared our luggage wouldn’t fit in the car. When the crowd of helpers were unable to close the boot, the driver walked casually around the vehicle to fasten the trunk with sisal string, which he threaded through a missing lock mechanism in a practised manner.  Remaining bags were jammed onto the back seat and I took my place amongst them as Ben hopped into the front seat to help with directions.

“Twende,” Ben said. Both of us relieved to get away from the port and the crowd. “Off we go.”

The car scraped off in a pall of black smoke, rear bumper skimming the tarmac. The driver scratched his head and a CD disc hanging from the rear view mirror swung dustily as we headed out along a wide, tree lined avenue in downtown Dar; new office blocks interspersed with colonial era bungalows set in green gardens on either side. I wound down my window to catch some air and was shocked as the pane of glass dropped alarmingly into the door at an angle. We pulled up to some traffic lights. A lady with a small baby on her back, held a battered plastic cup to the window.

“Do you have any change Ben?” I asked urgently.

“Nothing. I’ve only just got enough for the taxi as it is.” He said, glancing over his shoulder. “She’ll give up in a minute.”

I shook my head to gesture ‘no’, feeling mortified and willing the lights to go green. When they did, I was surprised again when the driver pulled immediately into a petrol station.

“What’s going on?” I asked, confused.

“Petroli.” The driver said, rubbing thumb and forefinger to make the universal sign for cash. Ben handed him a ten thousand note and the older man hissed at a pump attendant, waving Ben’s note through the window.

“Shukran.” The taxi driver said, nodding to Ben once the quota of fuel had been emptied into the tank.

“I was wondering how long that fuel light had been on.”  Ben muttered.

We crossed Selandar bridge heading northward over the city estuary and as we picked up speed, the breeze carried with it a waft of effluent. Soon after we turned right onto Kenyatta Drive, the smartest address on the Msasani peninsular (despite the smells), with dramatic the coral cliffs on one side, whitewashed embassy houses with guards, high walls and forbidding gates on the other. A lighthouse sat prettily on a distant outcrop. An ancient baobab tree decorated with ribbons stood sentry on the cliff edge, a bicycle parked up at its foot.

“What’s that?” I asked Ben.

“A baobab tree.” He said.

“I wonder why the ribbons?”

“Juju. It’s probably sacred in some way.”

The coral cliff then dropped gently down to Coco Beach, a picturesque sandy bay stretched out in a crescent, lined with tall coconut palms, waves lapping onto the beach from blue waters. The shoreline was busy with evening traffic, saloon cars parked up under casuarina trees, occupants spilling out to enjoying the last hour of the day.

“We’re on the peninsular now aren’t we?” Ben asked.  In answer, I handed him the guide book, too absorbed by the scenery to want to check.

We turned inland along residential streets lined where flat roofed bungalows lurked behind low and fences. The further we strayed from the seafront, the more down-at-heel the houses became.  Bougainvillea grew wild along chain link fences. A cluster of shipping container shops stood at a crossroads. Stores identically adorned with plastic brooms, buckets and basins in rainbow colours. One of the containers was home to a lively a bar, occupied by a handful of foreigners who sat on high stools drinking beer.

“That will be us soon,” I said to Ben, jokingly.

“Drinking in the diesel fumes.” Ben answered. “I hope not.”

After the crossroads, the tarmac stopped abruptly to be replaced by an undulating dirt track. There were no road signs but we were assured this was Chole Road. The taxi driver slowed to walking speed to avoid scraping the car over the potholes.

“Tunaenda Baobab Village” said Ben. “Baobab Apartments? I think this is the right road.”

Even on the map, roads and buildings were unmarked once you headed inland.

The driver scratched his head again, “Bao-bao?”

“Yes Baobab.” Ben said.

We crept further and further, passing blocks of flats in a forbidding compound.

“I’m going to kill Simon for not coming to meet us,” said Ben. “I’ve no idea where this place is.”

“Look, we’ll find it,” I said. “Someone must have heard of Baobab Village around here.”

A man selling fly blown freshly caught fish from a makeshift table couldn’t help but was happy to while away a few minutes to chat.

“Bao bao?” The driver asked.

“Apartments” we added helpfully over the driver’s shoulder

“Wapi?” said the fish seller, eyeing us strangers. “Unaenda Seacliff?”

It was hopeless. A Landcruiser sped by as our driver carefully circumnavigated huge craters in the road. From time-to-time one car wheel would lurch dramatically into a hole, or there was an agonising scraping sound from the bumper.  At one point my head hit the roof and I couldn’t help but yelp.  It was after 6pm and light was fading.

We drove up and down the road a few times, retracing our steps until finally found a promising looking compound, again, without any sign.  A gardener sweeping leaves and frangipani flowers in the car park nodded to confirm that we were in the right place.  My back was hurting and I was keen to crawl out of the car. After paying the driver the balance of our cash and once he’d helped us set down our cases in the dirt, the taxi pulled away into the dusk. There was no sign of a reception area so Ben approached the only soul around.

“Wapi Boss?” Ben asked the gardener.

The man gestured to a tennis court where a white couple were playing a game.  Leaving the bags, we went to investigate. A sandy coloured ridge-back wandered over to inspect us and then our luggage, briefly moving to cock its leg over our bags.

“Don’t you dare.” Ben hissed threateningly.

“Shot!” called out the man on the court, failing to return a cracking serve.

“Thanks,” said the woman reaching down to pick a new ball from the ground having won the point.  It felt almost rude to interrupt.

“Excuse me? Is this Baobab Apartments?” Ben asked.

“Ah! You’ve arrived.” said the woman with a foreign sounding accent.  “One moment. We’re on match point.”

After delivering another practised serve, the pair played on until the game was finished.

Ben tried again,

“I’m Ben. We’ve just arrived. We’d just like to see where we are staying. Is there a reception area somewhere?”

I went back to the cases and sat down, swiping at the mosquitoes attacking my ankles in the fading light.  Finally the couple left the court.

“Hi, I’m Caroline,” the woman said in a breathless, high pitched voice. She was older than I first thought. “I am the manager here. Welcome to Baobab. Let me just go and get your key, then I can show you where you are staying.”

“And you must be Ben,” her broad set opponent said, approaching casually from the tennis court placing the lid on a tube of balls. “I’m Simon.”

Ben looked confused.

“Simon Warn.”  He shook both our hands firmly. “From the office. Glad to see you’ve arrived.”

“Oh, you’re Simon.” Ben said with a mix of irritation and relief. “Er, good to meet you at last. I thought you were going to send a car to pick us up from the ferry this afternoon?  We’ve had a nightmare trying to find this place.”

“Oh yeah,” said Simon unfazed.  “The driver called me to say he went to meet the one o’clock ferry but you weren’t on it.”

“The boat got in at four.”  Ben said, “I’m pretty sure that’s the time I put in the fax from Zanzibar. I don’t really understand the confusion?”

Simon shrugged.

“I guess Jafari got it wrong,” he said. “And it’s a national holiday today, so sometimes the timings are a bit off.”

“Well,” Ben said, attempting to shrug off the stress of the past couple of hours, “we’re here now thank God.”

“Yeah. Welcome.” Simon said, opening the rear door of his beige Landcruiser for the dog to jump in. “Caroline will sort you out here.”

“So what’s the plan tomorrow?”  Ben asked Simon as the tennis player swung up into his driver’s seat.

“I’ll send the office car over to pick you both up in the morning. Round ten-ish? Probably a good idea to get you both sorted with mobile phones and that stuff tomorrow.  You can go into town with Reuzaura. Bring your passport, birth certificate and all that lot with you. We’ll need it for organising your work permit.”

“But I thought the work permit had been arranged already?” said Ben incredulous, “I sent you all the documents you need from London months ago. It was just the wedding certificate left wasn’t it?”

Simon smiled patronisingly.

“Africa time. The bureaucracy in this place is something else. Anyhow, doesn’t matter, we’ll sort it now you’re here. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Simon turned the ignition key and as he set off, we recoiled back from the exhaust fumes.

Caroline re-appeared with the key, called over to a watchman in uniform, gesturing him to help us with our luggage.

“Oh, has Simon gone?” She asked.

“Yeah, just now,” said Ben.

We followed Caroline past a small swimming pool to a double storey L shaped block.

“I’ve put you in Number seven downstairs.”  It was the first door we reached off the car park behind an open corridor. Caroline unlocked the door.

“There are a few things in here for you to start you off,” she said. “Milk in the fridge, drinking water, some eggs, tea, coffee and some bread.”

“Thanks,” I said, relieved.

And there was a familiar looking box standing in the middle of the room,

“Our tea chest!” I said, delighted. I’d almost forgotten what was packed inside.

“That’s good,” said Ben, switching on the ceiling fan. Our suitcases filling the small space.

Caroline briefly toured us around. The living space had a kitchenette in one corner and low sofa at the other end beneath a window overlooking a fence.

“This is the electricity meter here. You need to load it with Luku cards when you run low. There’s an air-conditioning unit in the bedroom next door and a ceiling fan in here.”

I put my head through the door to inspect the bedroom.

“Well I think that’s everything,” said Caroline. “I’ll be in the management office tomorrow morning for an hour or two if you need me,” she said. “but Simon also has my number.”

“It’s not too bad is it?” Ben asked after Caroline had left. “Just until Simon leaves and we move into the house.”

“No, it’s fine.” I said. “A bit dark, and no outside space but it’s just for a few weeks. I’m sure we’ll survive.”

Ben prised the top of the tea chest open and we pulled out various belongings, a pair of well-loved mugs, bath towels and a hard back copy of Delia Smith’s Complete Cookery Book.

“So how do you fancy a normal cup of tea?” Ben asked. “Without Zanzibar spice?”

There was no kettle so he found a saucepan and filled it with mineral water from a bottle and set it over the gas stove.

“I’d literally kill for one,” I said, laughing.

Baobab Village – entrance