No, I’m not taking my two young daughters and wife to Yonge Street’s famous strip club.
I am, however, making my way from an unknown grassy plain in the middle of the Serengeti to the exotic island paradise off the east coast of Tanzania. My driver rows through the gears of our manual transmission Land Rover, stomping on the gas whenever the “road” (I use the term very loosely) straightens out long enough to give us a brief respite from its jagged unpredictable angles.
“I don’t want you to be late for the plane!” he shouts over the howling dust and dirt. Late? Is it possible to be “late” for a charter flight when my companions and I fill the entire passenger manifest?
With no advance warning, we pull off the dirt track into the shin-high dry grass of the savannah and stop. “We’re here.”
We’re where?
“Here. The airport. The plane will meet you here.”
Airport?? I squint my eyes into the harsh African sun. There’s no runway. There isn’t even a dirt strip. As I scan the flat horizon, I finally notice a lone faded windsock listing limply in the light breeze. The red and white stripes of the tattered cloth are caked in the orange clay that covers everything in the Serengeti. It is set atop a rusted piece of spiralling rebar that is jammed into the earth so haphazardly that, on first glance, I think it is some sort of dilapidated scarecrow.
A distant buzzing sound fills the air and my seven-year-old daughter channels her best imitation of a television show she’s never even heard of as she hoots, “The plane! The plane!” Sure enough, a single prop Cessna Caravan is winging its way towards our safari truck. The plane glides past our position, turning in a slow looping approach, before settling softly into the dry Serengeti grass…er, runway. The pilot clambers out looking like a cross between Brad Pitt in Moneyball and Chris Hemsworth as Thor. He snaps off a pair of obligatory aviator sunglasses and I think I can hear my wife swooning as he motions me to help him load the rear of the plane with our baggage. “Next you’ll want me to fly the plane,” I quip, trying to ignore the death stare my wife is giving me. Despite her affinity for Brad Pitt and Norse thunder gods, her distinct hatred for tiny planes appears to be taking precedence. “Actually,” Pitt says, with a faint German accent, “the plane is full so you’re going to ride shotgun as my co-pilot. Don’t touch anything.”
Two hours later we’re in a cab weaving through the congested streets of Zanzibar’s historic Stone Town until we arrive at the island’s northern tip and enter the flowered gates of the Ras Nungwi Beach Hotel. After 10 days jostling through the Tanzanian bush with chemical toilets and tented camps for accommodations, my wife had demanded we close out the trip with a touch of luxury. Ras Nungwi does not disappoint. Occupying one of the resort’s beach front cottages, I stare across the lushly manicured lawn towards the azure sparkle of the Indian Ocean. My eldest daughter is dragging an increasingly heavy bag of sea shells across the sugary sand. The iconic triangular sail of a small fishing dhow leaves a trail of sparkles in its wake as it cruises lazily across the horizon. Out of the corner of my eye I spot my younger daughter practicing her horrible French with a Belgian girl as they take turns cannonballing off the elevated deck into the pool. The screams and splashes don’t seem to disturb my wife who is blissfully focused on reading a book, pausing only to sample the fresh fruits, cheeses and snacks that periodically emanate from the nearby restaurant.
Evening brings a spectacular fiery sunset followed immediately by poolside canapés before we settle into the open-air dining area. Personalized attention is the resort’s hallmark, with the chef visiting each table every evening. After ensuring everything was to our liking (an array of seafood for the adults and macaroni and pizza custom catered for the kids) we discuss what we might like for breakfast. The next morning, our selection of eggs, pastries and fruits are freshly prepared before another table-side visit from the chef to discuss the day’s dinner plans. My daughters marvel at the exotic lychee and bungo fruit, prompting Chef Samir to excuse himself briefly, returning with an entire lychee tree as he launches into an educational seminar on the differences between this unique African variety and what we might be used to back home.
Our culinary education continues when we day-trip out to a local spice plantation. For centuries, Zanzibar has been an important port for many of the world’s most precious spices and fruits. As we transition from the countryside into Stone Town, we also learn about Zanzibar’s shameful history as the capital of the global slave trade for many years. The streets of Stone Town appear to be laid out randomly. We traverse the narrow alleyways admiring the many ornate doorways and arches that alternate between Arabic and Indian design influences. We hear the call to prayer of the Muezzin in this heavily Muslim city and slip into the colonial luxury of the Africa House hotel to rehydrate with a cool drink in privacy so as not to offend the religious sensibilities of the locals who are fasting during this month of Ramadan. The girls get “inked” with intricate Henna tattoos before we settle in for a sunset dinner overlooking the port on the Seyyida hotel’s outdoor terrace.
As we board our tiny plane from Stone Town to the mainland city of Dar es Salaam, I reflect on this final stage in our African adventure. Zanzibar proved its worth as the perfect acclimation zone between the untamed wild of the Tanzanian bush and the inevitable return to the cosmopolitan industrialization of my home in Toronto. I can only hope that my acclimation from Serengeti safari to criminal courtroom will go as smoothly.
Edward Prutschi is a Toronto-based criminal defence lawyer. Follow Ed’s criminal law commentary (@prutschi) and The Crime Traveller’s adventures (@crimetraveller) on Twitter, read his Crime Traveller blog, or email ed@thecrimetraveller.com.