We landed in Dar es Salaam at 1:30 am, bleary-eyed from a long flight out of Zurich. Thanks to years of racking up miles on Star Alliance, I’d managed to snag us two business class tickets from Athens to Dar for free. Those lie-flat seats were a lifesaver after that slog across continents.
The Tanzanian metropolis is a bustling city, no doubt but held little allure for a man desperate for some shut-eye in the early hours. So, we hotfooted it to the Southern Sun hotel downtown. Crisp sheets and air conditioning – that’s what dreams were made of. After all, tomorrow, we’d be hopping on a tiny Cessna and whisked away to the paradise that is Zanzibar.
Dar Es Salaam from the air. A typical African city.
Ah, Zanzibar. We touched down after a lickety-split—albeit bumpy—flight from Dar es Salaam, a mere 30 minutes. A car awaited us, ready to whisk us 37 kilometers to Pongwe. It wasn’t until we reached the town limits that Zanzibar announced its African identity in no uncertain terms. Slum dwellings materialized, people milled about with a kind of weary aimlessness, and women balanced staggering loads on their heads. Children, barefoot and carefree, darted between them on dusty roads. Zanzibar, it seemed, wore its poverty more visibly than the mainland. Now, whether this stemmed from the island’s dominant Muslim religion, or simply fell prey to some lazy stereotype about Muslims and work ethic, I couldn’t say. One thing was certain, though: the pace of life here was delightfully languid. Time, it seemed, moved to the beat of a different drum in Zanzibar.
As we ventured further out of town, things took a turn for the, well, choppy. The road quality deteriorated into a bone-rattling affair, the asphalt surrendering to a series of cracks and potholes that would make a moon buggy blush. Traffic conditions, to put it mildly, were “interesting.” At times, the narrow road barely tolerated two cars passing side-by-side, which meant pedestrians and cyclists hugged the edges like frightened beetles whenever vehicles approached. It felt less like a thoroughfare and more like a game of vehicular chicken played for very high stakes.
Now, Zanzibar is a big island, and tourist hordes tend to congregate in the north, around Nungwi. This, it seemed, was why the west coast felt decidedly underdeveloped. Great news for us, solitude seekers desperate to escape the throngs. Less so for the locals, whose livelihoods might have benefitted from a touch more tourist trade.
Thankfully, the journey eventually spluttered to a halt at Pongwe Beach. And what a beach it was! A glorious sweep of sand, arguably one of the island’s finest. The only catch? Access was pretty much restricted to guests of the Pongwe Beach Hotel. Luckily, that’s where we found ourselves – in rooms that were perfectly pleasant and with service that bordered on the exceptional. Let’s just say, after that “interesting” commute, a little rest and recreation was precisely what the doctor ordered.
Our first day at Pongwe Beach was a masterclass in the art of luxurious inertia. Travel, even the glamorous kind that involves free business class flights (courtesy of yours truly and my years of tireless mileage accumulation), can leave a man pleasantly depleted. So, we surrendered ourselves to the gentle tyranny of the pool and the beach, a blissful state of doing absolutely nothing.
The beach itself stretched out before us like a golden ribbon, vast and practically deserted thanks to the hotel’s relatively small size. Privacy, it seemed, was part of the package here. Now, the ocean lapping at the shore presented a bit of a conundrum. A coral reef, bless its wave-breaking heart, rendered the water delightfully calm but frustratingly shallow. Low tide revealed a comical human parade – a 200-meter walk to the reef, easily accomplished without getting your bathing suit any wetter than, say, your knees. Proper swimming, however, was reserved for high tide, and even then, required a healthy dose of caution thanks to the resident population of spiky sea urchins. All in all, a fantastic setup, though perhaps not ideal for those with Olympic swimming aspirations.
Emboldened by a substantial breakfast, the following day saw us embarking on a more adventurous pursuit. Our initial destination was the aptly named “diving club,” a structure whose rustic charm could not entirely disguise its functional nature. Here, with a formality that belied the casual ambiance, we secured reservations for a snorkeling excursion.
The subsequent boat trip served as a delightful prelude to the aquatic spectacle that awaited. We skimmed across a cerulean expanse of water, its surface undisturbed by even the gentlest ripple. Our destination: a nearby reef, pulsating with vibrant life. Unfortunately, I did not own an underwater camera.
The afternoon found us venturing beyond the confines of the lodge, drawn by the allure of the village and its inhabitants. Here, the veneer of tourist paradise dissolved, replaced by a stark reality check. Poverty wore its colors boldly – the average dwelling was a cramped 40 square meters cobbled together from concrete blocks, topped with a tin roof. Forget paved walkways, most lacked even the basic amenities of electricity and running water, and glass windows were a luxury unseen. Toilets, when they existed, were relegated to separate structures, a discreet distance from the main building.
Yet, amidst the hardship, there were glimmers of hope and resilience. Satellite dishes sprouted from some roofs, a testament to the human desire for connection even in the most basic circumstances. Most homes boasted a small fenced yard, where a menagerie of plants and animals coexisted, a testament to the villagers’ resourcefulness in meeting their dietary needs. A small school stood proudly in the village center, and most children seemed to be attending, with only the very youngest left to their own devices, free spirits running barefoot through the dusty streets.
Hiking behind the village, we stumbled upon a forgotten beach – a stretch of flat rocks rather than the usual soft sand. It felt like a place time had bypassed, untouched by the usual throngs of sunbathers. Here, amidst the rugged beauty, lay a peculiar testament to a past tragedy. Seashells, scattered like a heartbreaking confetti, stretched for an astonishing 100 meters inland. A grim reminder, a ghostly echo of the 2004 Sumatran tsunami that had lashed the village. It was a sobering discovery, a stark contrast to the carefree vibe of the tourist haven just a stone’s throw away.
