The Lamborghini and the Iftar tent

I just finished reading Anathem by Neal Stephenson, which I loved and which is another one of his brick-sized explorations of ideas and technology. His setting this time is an alternative universe where mathematicians, scientists and philosophers are segregated from the general population in a monastic-type setting. In between adventures involving otherworldly visitors, Tetris-like puzzles with real tiles and other fun sci-fi stuff, the characters engage in high-level debates on Platonic ideals, consciousness, symbolic reasoning and other heady topics.

If you don't understand after reading the previous paragraph why I love sci-fi so much, I will never convince you. In part, it's a way for a literary geek like me to understand (even be riveted by) scientific theories, mathematical principles, the way the natural world works, etc. Things like physics out of a textbook make me anxious and bored. Put the same content in a narrative and my brain can hum happily along for 1,000 + pages (Anathem weighs in at 1,008).

Which brings me to the Lamborghini, the Iftar tent and deductive reasoning I'm trying to apply to the villa across the street from my apartment building. I realize (thanks to Anathem) that my data will be faulty, that observation alone over such a short period of time does not allow me to draw the kind of conclusions I'm going to share a few paragraphs hence, but I can't help it. The juxtaposition is just too inviting.

Said villa is large, though no larger than the others on that particular block. Yet it is the center of neighborhood happenings in more ways than one. Take right now. An orange Lamborghini is parked in front. There are a startling number of wildly expensive cars parked on the streets of Abu Dhabi, though Lamborghinis are unusual, even for here. Beside the Lamborghini is an Iftar tent, a traditional shelter with cushions and a little swinging lantern. Back when everyone was a Bedouin, hosts welcome guests into their tents to break the fast. This tent, though traditional in nature is modern in design and features a built-in A/C unit. Nonetheless, Iftar tents are about as rare as orange Lamborghinis. These days, most people celebrate the meal inside with families or at the city's many lavish buffets. (Because restaurants can't open during the day, they go all-out at night during Ramadan.)

What does this mean? Who has a Lamborghini and an Iftar tent? At first glance , they are two symbols of the Gulf circa 2009-- wealth and tradition coexisting on a few feet of city asphalt. At the same time, they are mutually exclusive. Those holding on to the traditions espoused by the Iftar tent would resist spending the money it would take to buy a top-of-the-line Italian sports car in bright orange. Those who favor $200,000-worth of big engines and sleek European design would turn away from the rustic nature of the Arabian tent, A/C notwithstanding.

Because there is sometimes a metallic gold Mercedes parked next to the Lamborghini (!!) I've decided that the owner of the villa, let's call him Asaad, is a dealer in fancy cars, but his heart remains in the desert. He drives home his wares because he can't possible be seen in a more modest Beemer (or on a camel), but he likes nothing better than to ditch the glitz for a night in the tent. Or, Asaad could be a purveyor of Iftar tents for the modern Gulf family who has a passion for the flashiest of European automobiles.

Anyone else have any ideas?

Ramadan salam

It's that time of year again--11 days earlier (by the solar calendar) than last year and a few degrees hotter. I'm much more tuned in to the quiet of Ramadan this year, the lighter traffic outside my window (during the day), the calm of the streets (most people aren't into fasting and also walking around when it's 110 with 85% humidity), and my growing knowledge of what this month means to many people here.

Observing Ramadan is one of the five pillars of Islam. Not all Muslims observe it, but many here do. By law, no restaurants are open in the day time and eating in public is a huge no-no (punishable by a fine). At school, we follow similar guidelines. Kids eat in the cafeteria only (adults are confined to the staff room) and no one has a water bottle in class. Even chowing down while driving is frowned upon because you are clearly visible through the windows.

As a result, many non-Muslims moan and groan about Ramadan. It is one of the few times a year when Abu Dhabi is more foreign than familiar. I myself did some sighing at the thought of giving up my Friday morning cappuccino, shallow as that sounds. Ramadan is inconvenient and fraught with potential frustrations. Business change their hours. Government and financial business is hard to transact. Doors close early or open far too late. Going out for breakfast or lunch is impossible.

Given these issues (which affect everyone), I was surprised to discover how much Muslims look forward to Ramadan. Having to fast during daylight hours didn't strike me as something to anticipate gleefully. Something to endure for the sake of your faith, sure. Something that makes theological sense as a form of meditation and self-denial, naturally. But excitement? A time for twinkly light displays on the roads and celebratory decor in the malls? (Both happening.) But it's true, and it's cool. I read an article in the local Time Out magazine that profiled Muslims from all walks of life (from construction worker to chef (ouch) to business owner to belly dancer). All said they loved Ramadan. They loved the time of year. They loved iftar (the meal to break the fast at the sundown). They loved eating special foods and hanging out. The construction worker said it felt like a kind of holiday. Holiday? Due to the heat, the guy works from 9:00 p.m.-3:30 a.m. during the holy month. But he's down with it. On the first day of school, one of my old students (not profiled in the magazine) talked about how psyched she is for next Ramadan (already anticipating it) when she'll be able to spend most of it in Palestine with her extended family. I got an email from the parent of three of my students (they're triplets) talking about how her kids are fasting, not because they have to but because they love Ramadan so much. (And this is not a religiously conservative family by any stretch.)

Ramadan is also, I've discovered, not really about the food. Actually, for me, it'd be about the water. (I'd be much more into trying a fast or two if I could just drink water.) But it's not about that either. It's about abstaining in general. And I don't just mean fleshly pursuits (though those count), but about negative thoughts, anger, jealous, greed. People can "break their fast" by being rude or dismissive in the same way they can break it by sipping tea. In fact, everyone I've talked to about Ramadan says not eating is the easy part. It's the other stuff that's harder. After all, you get to eat a big meal with your family and friends at sundown and make up for the physical fast (many report that they actually gain weight!). It's harder to "make up for" being bitchy or judgemental. As a result, people try to be more generous and thoughtful. Ramadan is a time for reaching out and for charity. The huge Sheikh Zayed mosque (profiled in Sept 2008 and December 2008 entries) hosts a nightly iftar in its parking lot for over 15,000 people throughout Ramadan. 15,000 people. Every single night of the Holy Month.

All this positive energy floating around is almost tangible this year. I don't want to sound all whoo-whoo, but ever since reading about peoples' excitement (rather than the dread I assumed), I've picked up a distinctly peaceful, calm vibe around town. This may fade as the month progresses, but it's definitely noticeable now. My feelings toward Ramadan have also changed. Rather than feeling sorry for my Muslim friends and students, I'm happy for them. More than that, I respect (and am a bit envious of) their world view that transforms a (to me) draconian religious imperative into a genuine celebration. Sounds like a pretty good definition of faith to me.

Ramadan Kareem!

Why the Lutheran Diocese of Northern Tanzania should plan your safari

If you don't know any actual Lutherans or haven't read Garrison Keillor, allow me to make some broad generalizations about modern-day adherents to a tradition that traces its roots back to Martin "I started the whole Reformation" Luther. Despite their fiery rebel beginnings, Lutherans today are best known for their reliably serene approach to theology, their cool heads and practical mien perhaps related to their concentration in Scandinavia and the northern regions of the United States.

It shouldn't be a huge surprise, then, to find that they focused their mission work in East Africa in the northern part of Tanzania. One result is a characteristically mellow community in the town of Moshi that runs a hostel and conference center. And a high-quality, reasonably priced safari business in a region with a high demand for the same. Other denominations, perhaps the Methodists (definitely the evangelicals), might advertise their offerings enthusiastically. Lutherans, being more unassuming, bury it on their website and hope for the best.

Under a virtual bushel or not, when planning a safari in northern Tanzania, the Lutheran diocese is the first place you should go. And here's the top 10 to prove it...

10. The car works. These are the Landcruisers, you'll recall, with the pop top for better viewing and less nausea. Given the remoteness of most national parks and the rough roads that lead to them, a reliable car is a must.

9. The hostel, where you stay before beginning your journey, has a view of Mt. Kilimanjaro. You'd think that'd be a given in Moshi (the town at its base) but it's not.

8. More on the hostel: the rooms are low-key (of course) and reasonably priced (between $40-$55). They come with plentiful hot water, comfy beds and mosquito nets.

7. When booking your safari, you are provided with a professional spreadsheet that outlines every cost, line by line. This was not the case for other safaris I researched, which stick with more vague estimates and itineraries.

6. A little-known fact: most companies want money for a safari completely up front. This was true from the most budgety all the way up to the really luxurious trips. What this means is that you must wire a significant chunk of change to someone you have never met. I had no problem wiring money to Lutherans. I definitely would have thought twice if there were Baptists involved...

5. More on money/costs/Lutherans: During the trip, we stayed in a wide range of places, from a very basic camp/lodge to a fancy-schmancy safari lodge. They found the best place at the best price and booked us there. They didn't stick to one type of accommodation, and when they did go nicer, the cost quoted was always much less than the Internet price. Plain, ol' common sense.

4. They don't do big groups or stuff you into a car with a bunch of strangers. They arrange for journeys with your group only, though the cost is often less what you'd pay for bigger crowd.

3. These final three are going to be about our guide. A guide can make or break a trip. You are with this person all day every day of your journey. Our guide, Jessy, spoke fluent English, which you'd think might not be that necessary (safaris aren't especially chatty), but it made a huge difference. He told us all about the animals; we could ask questions and it was always clear where we were going and what we'd see there.

2. Jessy provided binoculars, which I had forgotten and it would have been a completely different and very, very frustrating trip if he hadn't had them. It's a little detail Lutherans remember that others might forget.

1. Jessy was very cool and a fount of knowledge: we talked wildlife, Tanzanian history and politics, American history and politics, current economics and much more. He was a great guy in addition to being a great guide, and that's a good thing when you are an introvert who has to spend 9-12 hours/day in a car with someone you don't know.

Those of you saving those pennies for your dream journey to East Africa, look no further than the Lutheran Diocese of Northern Tanzania. They may not toot their own horn, but, as an Anglican, I'm more than happy to do it for them.

Act III: journey to the endless plain

The word "safari" has lost a lot of its mystique, if it ever had any to begin with. To me, it conjures images of beefy guys in mismatched khaki wielding shotguns and disrespecting the natives. The Beach Boys went on a "surfin' safari." It is unclear where, although they wanted us all to join them. Car dealers and clothing companies sometimes attempt to sell a safari image, and usually it's bombastic (car dealers) or expensively precious. (Does anyone remember what Banana Republic stores used to look like?)

Despite the mess of modern advertising, safari comes from the Swahili word for journey, which (thankfully) still connotes travel and discovery, so I'm going to use that instead. In Tanzania, the journey to the national parks is definitely one of discovery, both inner and outer. It is a journey of looking, watching and seeing the most stunning wildlife and landscapes our planet has to offer, and then trying to figure out what to do with all that wonder in one place. Like all witnesses of profound natural beauty I felt humbled, privileged and changed by the experience. This is what a real journey is supposed to do.

Our journey started in Moshi the day we met Jessy, our intrepid guide and pilot of the pop-top Landcruiser, which is what people take into national parks these days, rather than a string of porters and a rifle case. The pop-top Landcruiser, usually painted tan or green, is the perfect perch for modern photographers to digitally shoot the animals grazing or stalking in their path. The ability to stand up as the car bumps down rough dirt roads also makes these journeys much more pleasant for those of us prone to near-debilitating carsickness. I was worried that I'd spent six days awed but queasy. Instead, I spent six days with a dirty face and a huge grin (with the dust-coated teeth to go with it), hanging out the pop-top, hair blowing in the breeze.

We began at Lake Manyara, a smallish park bound by an alkaline lake on one side and the sheer cliffs of the Great Rift Valley escarpment on the other. We ended at Tarangire with its towering baobabs, migratory herds of wildebeests and zebras and year-round herds of elephants. In between we visited the perfect bowl of Ngorongoro Crater and the endless plain of the Serengeti.

I'm now left with the task of bringing each of these parks to life, which is impossible. Every day of the journey was a world of its own, and each park offered something unique. We wouldn't have left anything off of the itinerary. It would have changed the whole shape and rhythm of the trip. But when I think of what to share, I think mostly of moments, and most of the moments that come to mind took place in Ngorongoro Crater and the Serengeti.

Jessy, our very professional guide, likes Ngorongoro Crater best of all the parks he frequents, and so did K. The crater itself is a 20-km caldera, all that's left of a huge and ancient volcano. Inside the bowl are lakes, streams and well-watered grazing land, which draws an array of animals over the steep, green edges and down onto the crater floor. On the day we visited, there was thick fog along the rim that cut visibility until we started our descent. Then, slowly and through slanted rays of early morning sunlight, the floor opened up below us. We saw herds of wildebeests, buffalo and zebras grazing on the open plain. Hyenas and warthogs shuffled nearby. Almost every pool had a cluster of the gray backs of hippos. I couldn't stop looking at the towering crater walls that seemed to seal us in with the animals, meadows, swampy marsh and clusters of trees.

Ngorongoro Crater was lush and tropical green, fed by the permanent water sources on the crater floor and the daily mist from the heights (even in the dry season when we visited). But just a few miles away is the deep gold of the savanna plain. From Ngorongoro, it's two hours down a very dusty gravel road to the gates of Serengeti National Park, but the endless plain starts well before.

As you may have guessed, thanks to my many references, Serengeti comes from the Maasai word for endless plain. There is no better description. In the Serengeti, there is only the plain and the sky, interrupted by scattering of granite outcrops and even fewer hills. During the dry season, the landscape ranges from palest yellow to deep golden brown with bursts of dusty green around rapidly dwindling waterholes. The Serengeti swallows those, too, and makes the savanna inhospitable to the millions of wildebeests, whose migration defines the park's borders and brought the place to worldwide stardom in The Serengeti Shall Not Die, nature advocacy and wild animal photography at its documentary best.

Jessy said that the Serengeti is green and lush in the rainy season, blanketed with grazing herds and rife with the predators who go with them. Although I'm sure it's beautiful, I fell in love with the dry savanna, the far-reaching lines of sight, the acacia trees stark and beautiful, the big cats lolling in the sun, the gazelles flitting across the road, the smaller groups of elephants and buffalo's daily search for water--Serengeti's off hours when we could drive all day and hardly see any cars. My eyes sucked up the plain; they couldn't get enough. I felt small and swallowed, but also a strange sense of at-homeness, as if I were in a place that belonged to no one, but was big enough to welcome everyone.

We spent two days driving in the Serengeti, stopping for leopards (saw three) or cheetahs (6, including one in the middle of a meal), but the stars of the dry savanna are the lions. We were watching a herd of elephants (which always include babies. You have not seen cute until you've seen a baby elephant) when I turned around and noticed some tawny lumps basking in the late afternoon sun. It turned out to be a group of seven lionesses and one cub, who didn't want to sleep and spent some time walking amongst the lazing adults looking for something to do. Although a few cars came and went, we stayed, with the elephants on one side and the lions dozing on the other. At sunset, the elephants crossed over the road to the lions' side and headed directly into the setting sun. But not before the biggest bull elephant strode towards the nappers, with a deep warning bellow. The big cats sat up, stretched, and moved away to a safer distance. Although bull elephants rarely bother with lions and vice versa, the herd was taking no chances with babies in the group. The red sun set into the savanna, silhouetting the lions and the elephants. Just another evening on the endless plain.

That night, another group of lions roared right under the window of the hotel room. It was a deep, shattering sound, like someone wrenching apart two sheets of rusty metal. Against all logic, I shivered in my bed with a deep, primal terror. It's embarrassing to admit. Everyone I've told this to has helpfully pointed out that I was inside (and on the second floor of) a sturdy building. It didn't matter. I trembled and turned cold and didn't fall asleep until it stopped.

I didn't want to leave, and if I ever go back, I will spend six (or more) days just in the Serengeti. The place is a gift, as all national parks are. Sure, it brings in welcome jobs and tourists, but it is also a gift to all of humanity from the people of Tanzania, especially the Maasai, who found a way to live there first and whose culture forbids the killing or eating of wild animals. Thus making them among the original conservationists. Today, the park is full of conservationists, as a large sign in the visitors center makes clear. It takes way more than a village to keep the Serengeti flourishing, and there are many hands at work, most of them local, all of them committed to preserving this gift for all of us.

Act II: African snapshots

As many of you know (and my friend MW would tease that you'd only have to know me about 10 minutes), I was a Peace Corps volunteer in Cameroon from 1996-1998. It was an incredible experience and (among many other things) instilled in me a deep love of teaching, a basic knowledge of French, an aversion to owning much of anything and the ability to travel many hours smooshed into a cramped space.

I bring this up because the last time I was in Africa (before Tanzania), I was a pretty savvy character. I could take public transportation, bargain with the best, avoid giving offense, evaluate the true cost of most services, evade cons and foil pickpockets.

When planning this trip, I knew things would be different. For one, I was going to another country on the other side of the continent 11 years later. Progress would have been made. Africa is not a monolith, nor should it be treated as such. I knew I couldn't rely on my previous knowledge, but maybe something would come in handy after all these years.

What ended up happening was that I understood what was going on as it unfolded but was often powerless to maneuver in a favorable direction. In short, I was a tourist. A well traveled tourist maybe, but a tourist nonetheless.

Case in point: K and I got off the Zanzibar ferry in Dar es Salaam and were immediately approached by a taximan who offered to take us to the main bus station, a vortex of activity called Ubungo at the northern edge of town. He charged what seemed like a steep price, but I didn't know enough about taxi fares to bargain him down. I told him we wanted to go to Dar Express, a company named in the guidebook as reliable and quick for the 350-km journey up to Moshi and Mt. Kilimanjaro. The taximan assured me that he knew where it was and we set off.

We traveled at a brisk clip through the streets of downtown Dar. Whenever traffic stopped, young men flitted through the lanes of cars selling a wide variety of goods, from dish towels to cologne to peanuts to classroom maps of the country. It was a phenomenon I knew well. In Cameroon (as in Tanzania, it seemed), you could get just about anything--but the place you procured it wasn't going to look anything like Target.

We got to the bus station and pulled up to a kiosk that was most certainly not Dar Express. When I questioned the taximan, he huffed and puffed, insisting that Sai-baba Express was precisely what I'd asked for. At this point, I had a choice. I could demand, loudly, to be taken to Dar Express, which may or may not have been effective, or I could capitulate, pay him (knowing he'd also be getting a cut from this place) and go with the flow. We went with the flow and boarded a bus that would not have made any Western guidebook (but that actually wasn't all that bad, considering everyone had a whole seat to themselves, there was no livestock in sight and no one was sitting on stools in the aisles).

Blissful ignorance may have been more convenient, but as we bounced almost to the ceiling after every pothole, I was glad I hadn't lost my entire frame of reference.

Because the truth is, there were many similiarities between Cameroon of the late 90s and the Tanzania I visited this summer. Too many in a world that experienced unprecedented economic growth (in some places) during those very same 90s. I could have taken countless photographs in Moshi and along the road from Dar es Salaam, and they would have been indistinguishable from pics I have from Cameroon, to say nothing of the full sensory experience of walking down the street. In fact, some things I saw in Moshi, I only had French words for, having last seen them in Bafoussam or Yaounde.

The long, wraparound skirts of colorful fabric that women wore in Tanzania, I call pagne. The guys that call out of the windows of minivans, trying to collect customers are chargeurs. I don't know any other name for them. I saw strapping young men pulling stacked carts through the streets, beanpole young girls trailing a line of younger siblings. There were the policemen on the side of the road stopping cars and searching for bribes, the mud brick houses, the countless children in spotless school uniforms carrying books and small water containers, the silouette of women with large loads of wood balanced on their heads, the overloaded buses cruising for passengers, festooned with optimistic slogans (God is Love! Bismillah Allah! Jesus is coming! Air Obama!). There were the groups of idle men gathered around a broken down car, the neat pyramids of tomatoes or mangoes available for sale on a groundcover of burlap or plastic, music blaring from the bus station, shoes lined up for sale on the street, a dizzying array of clearly donated clothing hanging from market stalls. Corn on the cob roasted on open charcoal grills, bananas hung in bunches from front-yard trees, orange flowers crowned leafy trees, horns honked in alarm or just for attention, people stopped on the street, watching (and commenting) as a woman with a placid baby tied to her back holds forth with larger-than-life gestures and ready laughter. And the sharp odor of burning garbage and red laterite dust hung over it all. (See the bus stop pic at the beginning of this post, which contains many of the visuals described in this paragraph.)

All of these images were startlingly familiar--I had seen them all before, one decade and thousands of miles due west in another African country whose GDP was far too low for the resources within its borders, whose people lacked electricity, running water and access to medicine to cure treatable diseases--but who nonetheless conducted their daily lives with ceaseless energy and, often, optimism; people who were impossible to pity or stereotype.

That is not to say Tanzania and Cameroon are the same place. There are countless differences in language, culture, history, politics and any other category you'd like to name. Anyone reading this understands that Africa is an incredibly diverse and varied place, right? And I certainly saw plenty of uniquely Tanzanian 2009 sights (much more on that in the next post): people talking in cell phones on Sai-baba. The number of private cars on the Moshi roads (as opposed to public minivans and taxis). The food offered in restaurants with its Indian flare and the absence (alas) of hot pimant, spicy beans and bubbling orange vats of palm oil. But during our five days in Moshi waiting for the next act of the trip to begin, I couldn't get these snapshots out of my mind. I wonder what it would take before 10 years represents more than supreficial change.

Act I: Zanzibar

I've wanted to go to Zanzibar since discovering such a place exists, three dramatic syllables of unfathomable exoticness.Then I found out that Zanzibar (unlike, say, Synecdoche, NY) can back up its intriguing name with an old Stone Town (now a World Heritage site), endless stretches of white sand beaches, the sharp scent of spice trees swaying in the breeze and the ultramarine warmth of the Indian Ocean. Since it's only a 5.5 hour flight from Abu Dhabi, this summer was the perfect time for a trip that already felt more like a pilgrimage than a vacation. I had no idea when K and I left Abu Dhabi in late July how profound that feeling would become as the weeks went by.

Because of my longstanding fascination with the island, the Tanzanian mainland initially took a backseat to the visit to Zanzibar. As in: let's go to Zanzibar and, of course, since we're in the area, we'd better see Mt Kilimanjaro and the famous wildlife parks, too. What ended up happening was that the experience of visiting Ngorongoro Crater and the Serengeti so blew away anything I had ever thought was true about the word "safari" that Zanzibar receded into the background (stay tuned for more on the zen of wildlife viewing...). What it really means, however, is that Tanzania contains a whole world's worth of natural beauty, compelling history and breathtaking sights. It's not as if Zanzibar is eclipsed, but it's one of several amazing places, when in any other country it'd be the only show in town.

And it's quite a show. A maritime crossroads a mere 90 km off the coast, Africans, Europeans, Indians, Persians and Arabs have all vied for control of its lush soil, relatively malaria-free beaches and safe harbors. Oman held sway during Zanzibar's heyday from thousands of nautical miles away, and the Arab influence is most visible in elaborately carved doors in old Stone Town, which reminded me of Muscat and the old forts of Nizwa more than anything I saw on the African mainland. Stone Town itself is a little like Venice, in that the real stars of the show are winding, narrow passageways and the kind of decorative decay that can only exist on a historic seacoast. Unlike Venice, however, Stone Town doesn't have access to the kind of funding needed to shore up the crumbling facades, and UNESCO regulations make conservation too expensive for most building owners. So, the place is safe from development but not from the elements. That doesn't mean it's a ghost town. Tourists and locals crowd its narrow streets, the locals to buzz around on motorbikes and shop at the many markets; the tourists to gawk at the Anglican Cathedral (built on the site of the old slave market), visit the museums, wander the alleyways and visit the childhood home of Freddie Mercury, lead singer of Queen and Zanzibar native.

My first emotion upon seeing the Zanzibar of my dreams was one of profound relief. After an early morning flight from the UAE via Qatar, we landed in Dar es Salaam and made for the harbor, hoping to make the last ferry of the day. We caught the ferry without a problem, but the experience of rough late-afternoon seas after a full day of travel was unmitigated hell for someone who avoids boats in the best of circumstances. By the time the lights of Stone Town came into view, it was full dark, and I was hoping I wouldn't lose my lunch all over the nice Zanzibarian man kindly pointing out landmarks as we chugged into the harbor.


Everything was made better after we got to our guest house, a laid-back haven on Paje Beach, which is wrongly pooh-pooh'ed by Lonely Planet as strictly average because one can't swim all the time. Whatever. The beach itself is an ever-changing strip of white sand that is almost completely consumed at high tide (ideal for swimming), and dotted with seaweed and tidepools at low tide (ideal for exploring). The guest house, run by South African woman with magenta hair and her constantly barefoot grown son, could not have been a better choice, in that there was ample time to do nothing but walk on the beach, read, eat and walk on the beach some more, collecting shells or peeking at starfish and hermit crabs in the tidepools.


We managed to tear ourselves away from the water one day to take a spice tour from the chipper Mr. Spice, owner of a demonstration planation of the many tropical wonders that grow on Zanzibar. We sampled breadfruit, jackfruit, rambutan and custard apple (misshapened and spiky on the outside, creamy and tart on the inside). At one point Mr. Spice's go-to guy hitched himself up a palm tree, singing at the top of his lungs and dropped down enough heavy fresh coconuts for us all to share. I sampled coconut juice for the first time, clear, sweet and filling. After visiting cocoa, coffee, nutmeg and pepper trees, not to mention vanilla bean vines and various spice plants, we settled down to a lunch prepared with most of the above.

We started our trip in Zanzibar, with the warmth of the beach and the scent of spices. When we sadly boarded the ferry back to Dar (with another tight connection to a bus up to Moshi, the town at the base of Kilimanjaro) we didn't know the trip to Tanzania would be a journey in three distinct acts. The relaxed tropical opening scenes were ending, and the rest of the adventure was about to begin...