28th August 2008

The weather here in Zanzibar continues to be glorious, bright, breezy, and none of the cloying humidity you’d find in the Far East. You can actually sit in the shade and cool down without feeling like you’ve been steamed like a dumpling. The sky and sea are both the sort of blue you only ever see on postcards or Windows desktop backgrounds, a far cry from the dreary grey skies we left behind in England.

Yesterday’s adventure took us by boat to Prison Island, which, misleadingly, has never actually housed any prisoners. Its current inmates are considerably more agreeable: giant tortoises. And giant they truly are. Surprisingly sociable too, although feeding them requires a certain amount of nerve. One false move and you could be waving goodbye to a finger. They look slow, but those beaks don’t mess about.

While Jamie and Sarah took to the reef for a spot of snorkelling (reporting back on vibrant fish and underwater wonders), I stayed aboard the boat to keep Sue company – and also because Jamie had commandeered my snorkelling gear. Probably for the best; I suspect the reef is better off without me flailing around in it.

We had the island to ourselves for a blissful while, until, with a slight dramatic flourish, a boatload of Italians arrived. You can usually spot them from a nautical mile away: posing artistically, gesticulating wildly, and enveloped in a cloud of cigarette smoke. They weren’t exactly adventurous either, clustering together in a tight pack, presumably to admire one another and perfect their pouts.

We made a quiet escape and wandered off into a little patch of forest, where we found a few more tortoises and stumbled across some Dik Diks, tiny deer with even tinier nerves. After a short cave exploration, we returned to the mainland.

Getting around the island has been made easy by the plentiful taxis, cheap, cheerful, and infinitely more reliable than public transport. The food’s been good too, when it eventually arrives. The service, however, has been something of an ongoing endurance test.

Last night’s dinner in Stone Town set a new (low) bar. After ordering, we waited two full hours with nothing appearing but our increasingly frosty expressions. I politely enquired as to the status of our meals, only for them to materialise a mere thirty seconds later, cold and clearly having been ready for some time. The waitress, it turned out, had been too busy having a natter at the bar with her mates to bring them over. I said my piece, made no apologies for it, and we left – with our meals abandoned on the counter like bait for the local fly population. The waitress promptly disappeared into the kitchen and, I imagine, is still there.

Today has been much quieter. Sarah and Jamie have both managed to sunburn themselves, the classic result of a deceptively mild breeze masking the tropical sun. They wisely decided not to subject their crisped limbs to further punishment. So we spent the day around the hotel, relaxing, rehydrating, and recovering from the trauma of The Meal That Never Came.