Jambo,
Well our trip is effectively over and our long trek home is about to start. Our last few days have been spent laying on a beach in Zanzibar which has been a relaxing way to finish the trip; apart from the application of some unusual dress codes providing a constant reminder of some ‘overindulgence’ in the last few weeks. Pants are mandatory at dinner, and my jeans are now so tight it’s not leaving much to the imagination. Chipolata for entree anyone? And while our night time wild animal noises are over, they have been replaced by me exhibiting something like a cross between an injured cheetah and a mating hippo each night at 7pm as I try to squeeze into my pair of jeans / skins.
Anyway, when we left you last time, I had just helped fund the next Masai cow herd purchase and an African lady had just finished making some human waffles in a hot air balloon. And the Serengeti had delivered us everything so far except the most elusive member of the Big 5. And no I’m not talking about the ‘celebrities you are allowed to sleep with’ Big 5 (although Rose Byrne is extremely hard to track – why won’t she return my emails? I’ve followed her since Heartbreak High and Echo Point for gods sake). No – I’m talking about a leopard.
Our guide had been intent on closing out the Big 5 for us to the point of being obsessive. The lion, elephant, buffalo and rhino had come pretty easily and early in the trip. It was the leopard that was John’s remaining elusive target. I think he cared more than we did – we were more than happy to just watch stuff get eaten. But over the last 2 days of our safari, John delivered an almost unprecedented 3 different leopards. The only problem was that on each occasion, by the time we could figure out where he was pointing to, the leopard had disappeared. This despite other cars around us ooo’ing and ahhh’ing and snapping away. I think the last one hurt John the most – I was more intent on shutting the 4WD roof because of some sudden heavy rain and by the time I was done impersonating a completely unco-ordinated Leyland Brother (those roofs can be tricky but not as tricky as I made it out to be) the leopard had shot up a tree (and the 4WD was full of water anyway). You could almost hear the exasperation in John’s voice. I’ve only picked up a little Swahili, but I’m pretty sure I could hear him tell his mates over the radio that he would have more of a chance getting a tour group comprising of Helen Keller and Stevie Wonder to spot a leopard than the two clueless gringos he had bouncing away in the back of his jeep.
So despite John’s best efforts, our official safari had come to an end with no leopard, and all we had left was the morning drive across the Serengeti to the airport. John had resorted to terms like ‘well I guess you have a reason to come back’ to console himself but we knew that it was our eyesight that had cost him the perfect guiding trip (on current form we would struggle to spot a blue whale in a backyard pool) .But as we wound our way to the airport, John let out a bellow of ‘there is a leopard!’ that was forceful enough to startle a euthenised sloth . John sped closer and was almost jumping out of his seat saying ‘there it is, there it is’. To which we again responded ‘where, where’. I thought at this point he was frustrated enough to strap bacon to my arms and throw me out of the car to give me a look at the inside of a leopard. But then we saw it – perched on a rock and almost posing for our camera. And to top it off, the posing leopard brought two little cubs along for the show. Our guide was finally content that two docile, visually impaired Skippys had not cost him the perfect guiding trip. Really, all he had to do was call out ‘there is a Bon Jovi’ a few times and I’m sure Krys would have been a much more diligent spotter.
So our satisfied little jeep made it’s way to the airport. Now Serengeti does airports a little differently to home. This airport was basically a small gravel strip with a tin shed selling cans of Coke and Pringles – my morning effort of carefully separating liquids of greater than 100ml was proved to be pointless as the sum total of ‘security’ involved the pilot asking ‘are you Trent and Krystal’. But the plane ride itself was pretty eventful; in a small single engine 12 seater that felt every bump and wind shift. The poor French girl behind me filled a sick back with half digested croissant and crockenbush (that’s what French eat for breakfast isn’t it?). But by the time we were set for leg 2 in our baby plane, a lunch box containing questionable chicken had brought some travel sickness much closer to home.
I could see the sweat on Krys’ lip as we all sat there ready for take-off to Zanzibar. A sweaty lip straight after lunch for Krys means only one thing – it is toilet time – in a hurry. And there was no way this could wait the 1hr 40min journey. Krys not wanting to inconvenience anyone and delay takeoff was trying to say she was ok. But once I pointed out that people in a tiny plane being subjected to someone trying to ‘do a hippo’ mid flight in a sick bag was probably a worse outcome than a 5 minute delay, Krys asked the pilot to stop his intro and let her out.
You could hear the grumbles from the other 10 passengers. But then all ill feeling at the delay fell away when they spotted Krys coming back from her little pitstop trying to make up for lost time. There was no dainty walking back to the plane for her, but a full blown sprint across the tarmac that would have gone close to beating Cathy Freeman in the 2000 Olympics. I can see it now, Cathy Freeman in the green body suit going stride for stride with Krys flopping frantically along in her jeans, white blouse, sunglasses and thongs…..
The last flight once it got underway was brutal; it felt less like the plane making its own path and more like the plane was getting roughly tossed from cloud to cloud; like being in a metallic game of ‘push the nerd around a schoolboy circle’. A girl in front of Krys started praying (always such a calming sight – thanks God) and her partner was so twitchy I thought a he had disturbed a nest of bull ants in his underwear. So it was relieved smiles all round when we finally safely landed in Zanzibar.
And the place here in Zanzibar is beautiful; perfect white sand and an ocean fringed by a coral atoll. The grounds are all palm trees and bures that waiters bring beers and cocktails to. We have snorkled and scuba dived, and been surrounded by so many inquisitive fish that we felt almost under attack – to turn and see Krys throwing underwater punches at palm sized black and white fish to create some space was pretty amusing. Not that they backed off though. Now I know what a plate of prawns surrounded by hungry bogans at a low rent all you can eat seafood buffet feels like.
The only downside to Zanzibar is that it is f#cking hot – I’m talking melting like the Wicked Witch of the West after a bucket of water was thrown on her hot. Actually just remembering that scene gets me confused – what Wicked Witch whose only weakness is water would leave random pails of it just lying around her castle just in case someone wants to finish her? If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that the whole idea is so stupid that the Wizard of Oz wasn’t real.
But that brings us to now, where we sit awaiting our transport to the airport for our epic haul home. One more African ‘choose your own seat’ flight adventure before we get back to normality. The tail end of the trip has seen the first chink in my new wife emerge – who’d have thought that Krys would have a blank spot when it came to pronouncing the word ‘communal’. But given my flaws, I guess I can live with it…….
See you all hopefully over the new few weeks.
Kwaheri.
Trent and Krystal.
smallthoughts 