This flight from Ndutu back to Zanzibar was a bit of an unorthodox affair. Think “puddle jumper” meets “scenic detour.” Several stops along the way meant a good chunk of time was spent waiting on the tarmac, and as fate would have it, I ended up snagging the co-pilot’s seat. Now, at first, I was a bit nervous, desperately trying not to twitch my foot and accidentally send the plane careening off course. But then, the initial fear subsided, and I found myself utterly captivated by the view – a tapestry of endless plains sprawling beneath us – and the mesmerizing dance of the cockpit instruments.
The Dar es Salaam to Zanzibar leg, however, was a touch more “hairy.” We hit a bit of a weather system, and our trusty Cessna Caravan started to buck and shudder like a rodeo bronco. Concerned? Yes. Terrified? Not quite. See, ever since my stint in the Greek Air Force, I’ve been fascinated by airplanes. The irony, of course, is that I fly constantly for work. Mental note to self: enroll in pilot school. Get a license. Live the dream.
Anyway, we landed safe and sound, and with nary a bump, hopped in a car for the drive to Matemwe, a village tucked away on Zanzibar’s northeastern coast. Matemwe Beach itself? Think five kilometers of pristine white sand, fringed with swaying palm trees and a coral reef that did its best to keep the water shallow – perfect for lounging and soaking up the sun, less than ideal for anyone yearning for a proper swim (much like Pongwe, for those keeping score).
We arrived just as the sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues – the perfect light for a photographer’s dream. Canon in hand, I slapped on the wide-angle lens and waded into the crystal-clear water, camera pointed towards the approaching storm. That’s when disaster struck, in the form of a rogue sea urchin. Ouch. Let’s just say stepping on one of those spiky little fiends is an experience I wouldn’t recommend. And then I took one more step and I landed with my other foot on another sea urchin. Yes they usually stick together. The pain was enough to make a grown man yelp and hobble around like a drunken flamingo. Miraculously, the camera survived the ordeal, but the next two hours were spent in a state of exquisite agony as a fellow tourist and nurse diligently removed the tiny needles from my throbbing feet. It took a good twenty days for them to fully recover, and let’s just say walking for the rest of the trip involved a lot of tiptoeing and wincing.
Now, this Matemwe Beach – it doubles as a local highway. Apparently, navigating the bumpy, dusty roads is a nightmare, so bicycles and strolling on the sand are the preferred modes of transportation. The main activity during the day? Watching groups of women diligently collecting seaweed. It’s a backbreaking affair, hours spent gathering these precious plants that they then lug back and dry under the relentless sun. Honestly, I couldn’t even hazard a guess at their daily earnings, but I suspect it wouldn’t break the bank – a dollar or two, at most.
The following day brought a welcome change of pace – another snorkeling trip! The water, as clear and blue as a freshly polished sapphire, offered a breathtaking underwater world. We encountered a squadron of squid, their desperate attempts to escape us by squirting ink only adding to the aquatic ballet. Once again, the limitations of mere snorkeling gnawed at me – a constant reminder of the wonders hidden just a little deeper. I must get that PADI certification.
Evenings were spent unwinding at the hotel, indulging in fresh seafood (the fish and shrimp were divine) and a less-than-stellar white wine. Not every sip can be a symphony, you know.
Our third and final day on Zanzibar was a tale of two beaches. The morning found us basking in the sun once more, enjoying the tranquility of Matemwe. But the afternoon brought us to Nungwi, the island’s supposed crown jewel. Alas, it turned out to be a major disappointment. Think Laganas in Zakynthos, only with a Zanzibari twist. Cheap restaurants and bars jostled for space, their loud music bleeding into one another. Service was lackluster, and the crowds – well, let’s just say they weren’t exactly bastions of serenity. One could only imagine what this place might have been like before the tourist hordes descended. Nungwi, it seemed, was best enjoyed in the rearview mirror.
The drive to the airport the next day was an eye-opener. Our chatty driver revealed that ferrying tourists was his golden ticket – a way to send his kids to private school. Halfway there, though, our progress was halted by a rather predictable roadblock: the local police. The unspoken request for a “facilitation fee” hung heavy in the air. Thankfully, our driver, through a combination of charm and Swahili persuasion (and maybe a subtle point in our direction), managed to convince them to let us pass. When I inquired about the incident, he simply shrugged and said, “Ah, you know, it’s the same here as in your country. Corruption everywhere.” Coming from a Zanzibari, that statement landed with a bit of a thud. The “Greek brand,” I’m afraid, had just taken a nosedive in my estimation.
Efie has a passion in collecting seashells. Smuggling them through airport security: a feat requiring thespian skills worthy of an Oscar. Apparently, these beautiful natural souvenirs are considered national treasures in Zanzibar, and exporting them is a strict no-no. Or a matter of handing a couple of Jacksons to the airport security officer. Thinking on my feet, I claimed I was merely bringing it to a friend in Dar es Salaam, and thankfully, that white lie did the trick.
Dar es Salaam was a quick pit stop before our pre-dawn flight back to Istanbul and eventually, Athens. A truly magnificent trip, one that left both Efie and me smitten with Africa. It was a continent that offered a kaleidoscope of experiences – breathtaking natural beauty, fascinating wildlife encounters, and a sobering glimpse into the realities of daily life. And who knows, maybe someday, we’d be back for another helping of its unique magic.
