26th August 2008

Early Thursday morning (by which I mean around 12:30 pm, a very civilised “early”), we packed the car and headed off to Heathrow. All was smooth sailing until about twelve miles from the airport, when the traffic slowed, then crawled, then decided it had had enough entirely. We spent a leisurely hour and a half parked on the motorway, at the end of the runway, watching planes glide overhead and wondering which one might be ours. Fortunately, we’d left plenty of time before our 8 pm flight. For once, being obsessively early paid off.

Eventually, the jam unravelled, revealing a seven-car pile-up that explained the hold-up. We rolled into the off-airport parking… only to find it was full. Marvellous. But all was not lost, we’d been upgraded to business class and, by some stroke of travel magic, were reallocated to the parking right next to Terminal 4. With spirits lifted and tyres cooled, we parked, checked in, breezed through security, and found ourselves airside with time to spare.

Our flight to Nairobi left punctually, and we even managed a bit of sleep, a rare treat in economy, let alone business class. Upon arrival, we expected a quick two-hour layover before catching a connecting flight to Zanzibar. And we did board the flight on time. Things were looking promising.

Until they weren’t.

Through the window, we watched the propellers spin enthusiastically, then slow, then stop altogether. An announcement followed: technical fault, everyone off, sorry. Bemused and bleary-eyed, we were herded back into Nairobi Airport, a place so chaotic and disorganised it could easily double as the set for a post-apocalyptic survival series.

There was very little information, even less assistance, and absolutely no urgency. After numerous false alarms involving non-existent check-in desks and enough aimless queuing to qualify as an Olympic event, we were finally fed. After six and a half hours of frustration, we boarded another plane, this one blessedly functional. The view of Mount Kilimanjaro as we jetted over it made the hassle just about bearable.

We landed in Zanzibar, late but intact. The airport was charmingly rustic, no baggage carousels, just a small crowd of hopeful passengers as handlers cheerfully lobbed luggage in our general direction. Miraculously, most of it survived. On arriving at our hotel and opening our suitcases, sadly, Jamie’s new mobile phone had not, or rather, it had vanished, presumably somewhere in the Nairobi leg of the journey. He’d made the rookie error of putting it in his suitcase. There was a small slit made on the side of the case where the mobile was filched. A quick call to Charlotte got it blocked, and the next morning, we accompanied Jamie to the police station in Stone Town to get the paperwork sorted for insurance. A warm welcome to paradise.

Zanzibar, at first glance, is stunning, with white beaches, turquoise sea, and lush green forests. The food so far has been excellent, and the wildlife experiences top-notch: we swam with dolphins, hand-fed Colobus monkeys, and explored the forest in the south. Stone Town, with its dusty charm and crumbling colonial buildings, kept pulling us back, and on one evening we even endured, I mean, attended, a local rap concert. Jamie thought it was fantastic. Sue and I, being slightly more, shall we say, melodically inclined, thought it was absolute tosh. Fortunately, it was in Swahili, so we didn’t have to suffer the lyrics, just the enthusiastic pointing.

The locals are friendly, but so laid-back they appear to be on a permanent tea break. Service in restaurants, shops, and the hotel is glacial at best, and there’s a strong preference for chatting to your mates rather than helping the guests who are waving at you like desperate survivors. “Island time,” they call it. I call it “third-world customer service.”

Still, the scenery makes up for it, and we’re adjusting. Slowly. Like the rest of Zanzibar.