Lauren: We jumped on the good ol’ Flying Horse, and settled in for our 3-hour ride across the bay. Impressed that we had made it through the touts unscathed, we celebrated with a Fanta and waited for the boat to leave. Shortly after pulling away from the dock, we began to rock and Beth prayed that her Dramamine would kick in. Then we really started rocking and I thought I might lose it. I walked down to get some fresh air, and returned to find a green Beth, sweating and taking deep breaths, staring feverishly at the ceiling. I grabbed 2 plastic bags, wrapped the straps of our bags around my legs and forced myself to sleep.  

We awoke on the shores of Zanzibar, thankfully, with our breakfasts still happily digesting. We jumped off the boat, went through immigration, and went searching for a taxi that would bring us the 2 hours north to Kendwa before the sunset.

After many touts telling us that it was impossible, we found a driver who was slowly filling up his matatu with eager tourists. Before we left, I made him promise to take us to the doorstep of the hotel, not just the edge of the road leading to it, since it was getting dark and we were told the path could be dangerous. I actually said, “Promise?” “Promise,” he promised. Adding that we may have to walk part of the way, but that he would definitely get us there.
We arrived at the entrance to the road 1.5 hours later. As we started down it, a (up until that point) very chilled, peaced-out Rastafarian started piping up in Swahili, setting off an animated back and forth with the driver. Since he had previously bantered big-smile-beaming with us in English, we figured he must be saying something he didn’t want us to hear. Before we were too far down the road, the driver angrily got out, and opened our door. Mr. oh-so-peace-love-and-happiness had apparently won the argument. He apologized to us, saying we’d have to walk the rest of the way, but that he’d go with us.

“Sorry to have inconvenienced you,” I said to the Rafastafarian as we got out.

“Hakuna matata,” he replied.

Ya, sure. Hakuna matata.

Our driver carried one of our heavy bags and we walked for about three quarters of a mile. At one point, we veered off the road through a village. Beth and I both looked at each other, our wits about us, imagining some ambush deep in the middle of nowhere.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s a shortcut.”

We twisted through mud huts and tiny passageways, passed chickens and livestock, and waved to ogling little children as we tromped through their backyards. We surfaced right at the entrace of our hotel.

“See?” our driver said. “I promised I’d deliver you.”

And we were delivered. We dropped off our bags at our cabana, threw on our bathing suits and rushed down to the water for a dip in the fountain of youth before sundown.

That night, there was a huge rainstorm, and all the guests at Kendwa Rocks crowded in the restaurant as water wafted through the windows, and poured down through cracks in the roof. The electricity faltered, and we were in and out of darkness. After the rain died down, we sat down to our candlelit dinner, and were joined by two Canadian doctors, Steve and Santosh. We had a nice chat and said we’d most likely catch up on the beach the following day.

In the morning, we had to move to a neighboring hotel, since Kendwa Rocks was all sold out for the night. We ended up at White Sands, where Steve and Santosh were staying. We spent the day lounging in hammocks, swimming in the water, and eating peanut butter and crackers (our hotel costs were killing our budget, so we could only buy one meal a day). That night, we all met for dinner again. We said we’d bring Konyagi, and S&S said “they’d contribute”.

We sat down to dinner and met Lydia, a TV producer from Munich. S&S bought us all 2 bottles of red wine, a real treat for us, and we chatted away and sipped wine while we waited for our freshly caught dinner to arrive. After the compulsory yes-we-hate-Bush and yes-we-know-we-suck-right-now conversations we are forced to replay with each new group of non-US travelers we come in contact with, we learned about Santosh’s upcoming wedding, Steve’s love of music, and heard several fascinating tales about life in East Germany pre-1989.

Once the wine was gone and dinner was over, we went next door to Sunset Bungalows for some pool and sodas (with Konyagi). We watched with stunned amusement as a group of maybe fifteen 18-22 year olds drank, danced, and engaged in adolescent mating rituals, boy-on-boy homoeroticism included. We left this overwhelmingly loud scene and went to the beach for the much anticipated End-Of-February midnight toast.

After the toast, we all headed to the water where we enjoyed a March 1st dip in the fountain of youth. We were all enjoying ourselves until the swarm of spring-breakers came racing like a spooked herd of cattle onto the beach, clothes flying into the air, and careening into the water. This was a cue to get out, and we raced to get our clothes and cameras on the beach. One very red haired spring-breaker posed for us before he went into the water, a picture I frequently pull up to look at and laugh, thinking that he bears a startling resemblance to Michaelangelo’s “Venus”.

The last two days we spent at Sunset Bungalows, since we were kicked out of White Sands due to lack of space. We laid around, soaking up the sun, reading, and taking frequent dips in the water as planned. Our last night there, Mukada showed up to DJ the full-moon party, and we got to hang out with him exactly one month after we had first met. Beth and I did our best to rally for the full moon party. But it wasn’t the same without Marjona, and the crowd was decidedly less lively. We laid in a hammock for as long as we could, listening to Mukada on the mic and his good choice in music.

Before we left, we all called Marjona to say hello from the full moon party. She was getting her nails done (oh, the joys of home life) and was thrilled to hear from us, and of course from Mukada. We snapped this great picture of Mukada in his DJ booth before we left, and promised to send it… Here ‘tis!

The next day, we packed up our stuff and sat on the beach. Just before we were headed up to reception to catch our bus, Mukada appeared in full Genie force, bringing us freshly cooked calamari, tuna, chips, and 2 cokes. It was an amazing treat, especially considering we were planning on skipping lunch since we couldn’t afford it.

Beth: We hurried up to the lobby where a few Brits were still checking out. A few Africans were sitting around, including the receptionist and a guy who had been part of the crew who drove us up here – and who we had run into earlier in the morning at the reception desk. When it was time to go, the guy offered to help us, quickly grabbing our bags and heading outside of the gate. Another African objected – he was the taxi driver that the front desk had arranged.

Lauren and I were confused. We had no idea there was any competition for us and we weren’t sure who we were supposed to be going with. To complicate matters, both drivers started claiming that going with the other was “unfair” and one of them had already packed our daypacks in his car.

I spoke to the front desk receptionist who told us were were supposed to go with the other guy (not the guy from before – who had our bags). I told Lauren and we started arguing with him to get our bags back. Mukada, our savoir, intervened. He started arguing with the rogue driver in Swahili, the only word of which I understood was “wazungu” (“white people”).

“Did you have a contract?” he finally asked in English. “No. Then it is finished,” he concluded.

We got into the other van with all of our bags and made it down to Stone Town in the next hour and half. Once there, we checked our bags at the same trusty hotel as before and we headed towards the fort. Halfway there, we spotted a cute restaurant named Mercury Bar with an excellent view of the port and the sunset. We decided to stop there.

We discovered that the bar was named in honor of Freddie Mercury, who was actually born in Zanzibar. The menu included a full detail of his life (minus the fact that he was gay).

We indulged in a Zanzibar “fajita” (having not had Mexican food for months – although this barely qualified…) and watched the sunset before heading back to the ferry.

On board, I got a phone call from Bon, during which I harassed him to join us in Argentina (which I think he’s going to – exciting!!). Then we settled in with the cockroaches, yet again, for the night (Lauren: and this time there was a MOUSE, too!), getting what rest we could before we’d have to wake up the next morning and say goodbye to Tanzania.