TRIP REPORTS - Annie

The country below is Tanzania, and the Cessna is an elaborate form of taxi. For thousands of miles the land is wild and strange, ranging dramatically from the icy peaks of Mount Kilimanjaro
There is nothing in the world like soaring over the plains of Africa in a 4-seater Cessna 172. The aeroplane is so tiny that it seems to have been made from a packet with instructions labelled 1-2-3 Airfix. There is a large proportion of window to fibreglass, so that each small seat has a view.

The country below is Tanzania, and the Cessna is an elaborate form of taxi. For thousands of miles the land is wild and strange, ranging dramatically from the icy peaks of Mount Kilimanjaro, over lush hilltop fields of the Rift Valley and vast savannah plains of the Serengeti. To the east, mile upon mile of white beaches and coral islands are washed by the waves of the Indian Ocean, and here, in the south, swathing paths of sand rivers cut through tropical woodland. From the precarious vantage point of the Cessna it is possible to make out the lumbering bulk of elephants breaking their way through dense bush and palm tree forests, and sandy coloured shapes in the clearing, probably antelope or gazelle.

Some pilots inspire more faith than others. Flying with the helplessly sexy Pascal at the controls, we were thrown into a downward swoop towards a lone rogue elephant taking an enthusiastic morning river bath, while our pilot grinned round at his cargo to boast, “I could have taken zee ‘airs off izz back!”.

Below is Ruaha National Park, 12,950 square km of high plains and forests, where deep terracotta and flame colours of the earth reflect the heat of the African sun. Massive rock kopjes sweep majestically upwards to form a fine line against the sky, poised above wide expanses of rolling land where distances dissolve in a wash of turning colours, marked with gigantic silhouettes of thousand year old baobab trees.

In all this wilderness there are just a few choices for tourist accommodation; and just one camp on the Mwagusi Sand River, owned and run by a man who camped here as a boy, when there was nowhere to stay at all. Such was the seed for perhaps the most passionately loved safari camp in East Africa, the distant, tiny, sand-pathed and makuti-thatched dream of Chris Fox, the bleached bronzed, skinny-limbed proprietor of Mwagusi Luxury Tented Camp. His barefoot passion for the place is contagious. His charm may be lost on the huge herds of elephants that roam at large, (although at least one many-ton female that he calls Constantine will eat palm seeds from his hands), but those who conquer the distances to come here cannot help but fall in love.

It is six am. and the camp is alive with excited cries. The cook has spotted a pack of African Hunting Dog in the bush. They are on the move, and he has trailed them through the gathering light of dawn. Guests are roused, forsaking their trays of morning tea and biscuits to scramble into vehicles, and in moments we are lurching through the bush, testing the speed of these specially modified machines against the drivers’ knowledge of the bumps.

Now the atmosphere changes. The vehicles slow to a grumbling crawl, the passengers are silent, and alert. They wend through the trees following hushed radio instructions from Chris, and, finally are faced by the pack. Twelve barrel-bellied panting bodies are arrayed in a circle on the sandy earth, each marked with fine khaki camouflage. It is breakfast time. The dogs begin to stand, each moving a few yards forward, then settling back in the dust. Chris is ahead of them, predicting their direction into an open clearing, and sure enough they began to assemble in that sunlit arena, watching for possible prey.

Before long the dogs’ attention is diverted by a scuffling in the trees and two blissfully fat, short-legged, helplessly unaware warthog saunter into view. Never has a plump pig run so fast as the one that got away, disappearing in the distance followed by a cloud of dust and half a pack of hunting dog, one chasing, one flanking, one following up the rear. The dogs were running lazily, teasingly, seemingly just stretching their legs, before wheeling back to torment the fatter warthog mate who stayed. Surrounded by dogs, the betusked piggy in the middle puffed up his shoulders, feigning formidable bravado. He tottered to and fro, the dogs edged forward, until one made the run and the warthog floundered, he darted a yard, and, in a puff of dust, vanished down a hole. Occasionally his snout would poke skywards, only to be sharply withdrawn. But the watchers didn’t wait to witness the denouement. It was breakfast time in the cool shade of camp and the hunting dogs, so rarely outwitted, sank back into a heat-sodden torpor.
So starts the day in the wild distances of Ruaha, where each day the diverse wildlife forms and follows its own pattern of life. Safaris here are superbly rewarding, far from the crowds and the minibuses of the northern parks, with a very special camp atmosphere that make each stay your own.

Zanzibar wraps its reality around you like a lingering fairytale. This tiny archipelago of Indian Ocean islands that once lured sailors, Sultans and slavers to its far-distant shores is so charismatic that it sweeps you into its shadowy romantic past and sunlit present all at once, and finally sets you down, all sun-bronzed and laden with spices and island art, and memories of an exceptionally sparkling and colourfully abundant sea.

The main island is small and easy to explore, with glorious white sand, palm-fringed beaches rewarding you for just a couple of hours’ drive to the North coast and the same to the East, along mainly hopeless but endlessly fascinating roads flanked by simple homesteads, roads worn more by foot or bicycle and frequented by chickens. There is a time warp here, this place where the past is so responsible for the present, where mobile phones, internet connections and television are all relatively recent, and where the history and culture is so imbued that you can simply stretch out beneath the dappled shade of the coconut palms and soak it up. Welcome to Zanzibar, and a world apart.

Sailors and traders from the first century AD came to the lands of ‘Zinj el Barr’, the Black Coast, bringing beads, porcelain and silks to trade for gold, slaves and spices, ebony, ivory, indigo and tortoiseshell. They waited for annual monsoon winds to fill their dhow sails and bear them across the Indian Ocean; today’s visitors usually arrive in a small ‘plane or ferry from Dar es Salaam. But these still afford a measured approach, allowing a breathtaking vision of sparkling cerulean waters over sandbanks and reefs, and then into Stone Town, the ancient island capital, still more of a town than a city, a maze of winding pedestrian streets in a hotchpotch of rooftops, a mass of corrugated iron overwhelming the historic stonework beneath.

Helplessly entwined in its own history, the people of Zanzibar are the Swahili, evolving from the influx of mainly Arabian and Persian immigrants who settled on the East African coast and islands to trade and escape the political upheavals of the Gulf two thousand years ago. Their cultural history was founded in sailing dhows, similar to those that glide by its shores today, boats that brought people, language and cultures and long centuries of power wrangling.

The Arab immigrants were overthrown by the Portuguese in the 15th century, until the Sultan of Oman finally saw them off for good in 1698 and started building the Stone Town of today; the Old Fort on the harbour was built on the remains of a Portuguese church dating back to 1600. Visitors to Stone Town still encounter the grandiose vision and dominant architectural style of a confident young Sultan who transferred the seat of his sultanate from the contentious capital of Muscat to the breezier climes of Zanzibar in 1832, and then began palace building in earnest, and seeding the coconut palms and clove plantations which soon defined Zanzibar as the ‘Spice Island’.

Driving through the island centre now, it is worth stopping to explore the spice plantations, where a guided walk for passing tourists is likely to be more lucrative than vast crops to export, but it is a fine sensual pleasure to crumble cinnamon bark straight from the tree, to breathe the scent of cloves drying in the sun, to taste and guess the spice from a handful of pods and powders. These are well used by the chefs and kitchens in beach hotels, where fishermen daily bring the catch of the day to be grilled, baked, battered or blanched with assorted Zanzibar spice.

The coast is dotted with hotels, self-contained beach hideaways that relish their privacy and provide various levels of style and comfort. I have been to most and head north by choice, to the northernmost peninsula which is occupied by Ras Nungwi Beach Hotel. The name is a very literal Swahili translation, but it says nothing of how this beach is secluded and the coral sands are blanched very, very pale. It does not tell how the wonderfully translucent and clear the sea is here, where a coral reef surrounds the shore creating a shallow wide expanse to explore until the tide rises high and then turquoise waves crash onto the beach. It is a naturally beautiful place.

Turtles come ashore to lay their eggs when the moon is full, and the surrounding reefs are a thriving colourful world to snorkel and dive. Ras Nungwi Beach Hotel is essentially respectful of its place, each room constructed from local wood and coral rag to create a number of thatched round houses along the beach, with lodge rooms in gardens behind. Soft sand pathways link the central thatched and open-sided restaurant to the rooms, pool and dive centre, providing the comforts of a fine hotel with a rustic, beach hideaway style. This is a fine place to lie back and soak up Zanzibar, crack open a coconut, watch the dhows on the far horizon and look forward to spice-scented, star filled African night.