Family

A weekend of mixed emotions. 

Predictably the best laid plans of mice and men don’t always go smoothly.

The lengthy immigration process meant our visitor missed his connecting flight from Dar up to Tanga. He was not deterred and managed to procure himself a taxi to drive him up to us instead. Cue an evening on tenterhooks hoping that his taxi would negotiate its way safely through the night time hazards. His feast converted into a plate awaiting reheating on arrival. My anxiety was not abated with reports of his swift progress. Seems the taxi driver was really earning his fare at twice the national speed limit. The 7 hour journey took 5. A remarkably calm passenger emerged, apparently although nail-biting, the journey hadn’t reached the reckless heights of Russian road experiences.

Remarkably the girls didn’t wake on his arrival, despite much grumblings at bedtime of not being allowed to stay up to greet him. So all were in good form for their tour guide designs in the morning. Farm walk, trip to the market and hospital visit all accomplished with time for a swift early lunch and then exit for the airport.

We thought we were going to be the only passengers on the 12 seater flight, until a last minute flurry of business men joined us. Such tantalising views of turquoise ocean beneath us and remarkably smooth journey. We loved our 30min summary of the Swahili coast laid out below, the distances between all our weekend beach trips looked tiny. We managed to identify our favourite, Peponi.

The capital of Zanzibar was far larger than I had imagined, with an international airport to match. A short transit into Stone Town and we emerged into a different kind of Africa. More Arabic in style with towering stone buildings, narrow alleys and precipitous balconies on the top levels. A mild culture shock for us all to suddenly be surrounded by scantily clad tourists, incongruous against a backdrop of conservatively dressed locals, by majority Muslim.

We enjoyed a bustling evening street food market, eventually persuading M that we weren’t going to get things at Muheza prices. Dinner at the old British Consulate, slowly crumbling, where the body of Livingstone had lain waiting for transport back to Britain. More culture for the girls the next morning – we all woke far too cold in the night, unused to the aircon, albeit set at 24c – sampled lots of strange Zanzibari dishes for breakfast – and then out into the heat to lose ourselves in a maze of alleys.

A waterfront of decaying Omani palaces, many touts offering boat trips out to the islands, streets which B thought were actually those of a French town and intricate carved doorways suggestive of an opulent past. We eventually found our way to the old slave market, with a detailed exhibition on the East African slave trade. Sobering, not least the section on modern day slavery in which they estimate that there are more slaves/enforced labourers today than there ever was in the hundreds of years of the African slave trade.

Our visitor could stay no longer, and yet is still treating us to a blissful week in Zanzibar ahead. B has taken some persuading that we can still have fun without him.

A part of my mind has been absent through the weekend. It is a little ironic that whilst I am spending time doing palliative care in Africa, my family have taken on palliative care back home. My grandfather has been increasingly frail since a stroke 18 months ago and started a massive decline a month ago. I have offered suggestions from afar to support my uncles and aunt in enabling him to be comfortable and end his days at home. They have managed to access all the support he needs. My Pa has flown back just in time to say farewell. I know that were I in the UK, I would likely not be in a position to go and help in person. But nonetheless wishing I could be closer to help more. I hope the end comes swiftly and peacefully.