Paje was a small town on the east coast of Zanzibar. There were many choices of places to stay, from budget accommodation right up to the sort of place Richard was booked into. I decided to call Eden Beach Lodge to see if I could get into the same place. The international dialling codes were at the bottom of the web page. Eventually the call went through and started ringing. “Eden Beach Lodge, can I help you?” was the answer.
“Yes please, I’m phoning to ask if you have any accommodation for next week. I’m arriving in Zanzibar on Monday afternoon, I'm hoping to stay for seven nights.”
“Just a moment please sir.”
There was a long pause as the receptionist thousands of miles away looked at the register.
“I'm sorry sir, we are fully booked for the next two weeks. Have you tried Paje Village Hotel?”
“No I haven’t,” I said, “where is that? Is it nearby?”
“It’s less than a kilometre down the beach from us, sir. Can I give you their phone number?”
I jotted the name and phone number on my list of things to do, thanked the lady and hung up. I Googled Paje Village Hotel. It immediately came back with a website. It seemed that the hotel was a lot smaller than Richard's, it had only 10 beach bungalows, no air-conditioning or cable TV, but from the pictures I decided it would be fine for what I needed. There was also some information on Paje itself. I read through it for a while.
‘Paje is a small village on the south east coast of Zanzibar, 50 km from Stone Town and the International Airport. The villagers make their living mostly from fishing and seaweed farming.’
I carried on browsing the site and had a look at the rooms. They looked good and given the proximity to Eden Beach Lodge where Richard was booked, I decided to call to see if I could get in. The number rang a few times and was answered by a German sounding man. To my relief there was accommodation available and I booked myself into a beach bungalow for the duration of my stay in Zanzibar. I sat back, satisfied that in a matter of hours I had been able to organise pretty much everything I thought I would need. I felt sure that I would be able to watch Richard at both locations. If he hired a car in Zanzibar, I had tracking devices I could use to follow him. I tapped my fingers on the Formica table, racking my brain for any last minute things I should take with me. Cash. I would go to the bank and draw £2000 which I would then change into Rand and US Dollars. After the bank, I was pretty sure I had everything I would need for the trip. I glanced at my watch as I rode the escalator up to the car park. The time was 12.30pm.
I made my way out into the open air of the parkade and felt the blast of chilled air on my face. In less than twenty fours you’ll be out of this, I told myself. As I stood in the queue for the automated ticket machine, I lit a cigarette. There was a young couple standing in front of me. The woman turned having smelled the smoke.
“Disgusting fags!” she said with venom.
“Terrible habit isn’t it?” I replied sarcastically and carried on smoking.
Having paid, I made my way back to the Ford, got in and immediately switched the heater on to full. There was still enough heat in the engine to warm the interior quickly. I started it up and headed down the wet concrete spiral to the road below. I spent the ten minutes it took to get back to my flat racking my brain for anything I might have overlooked. One thing I hated was being caught unprepared for a job and Gareth Lewer–Allen had certainly sprung this one on me. In between packing, I set up the laptop so I could monitor what Richard was doing.
The Aston was now parked outside his flat at Grimsby Mansions. I imagined he would be doing pretty much what I was doing. I packed the tools of my trade in the main bag that would travel in the hold of the aircraft. The rest would travel with me as hand luggage. When I was finally finished it had gone 1.30pm. I was done. I was ready to go. I still couldn't believe that this was actually happening.
Gareth Lewer-Allen, if you want me to go off half way around the world, spying on your son, on holiday, travelling first class, and you want to pay me £1000 a day to do it, that is perfectly fine with me. Anytime old boy, anytime.
I went to the laptop, the Aston was still parked on Southwall Road. I did an online search for a traffic report for the drive to Heathrow Airport. It wasn’t looking very good. There was a real chance of getting stuck in traffic on the way there and I couldn’t risk missing my flight. I decided I would have to travel to Heathrow on the Underground. Certainly not my favourite mode of transport but at least I knew I would get there on time. Heathrow was exactly one hour from Seven Sisters station. I would call for a minicab at 4.30pm to make the airport by 6pm. I spent the rest of the afternoon watching for any movement from the Aston and researching Cape Town, the area of Kalk Bay especially. Having never been I thought it would be a good idea to kill some time reading up on the place. It turned out that Kalk Bay was originally a fishing village on the coast of False Bay. From the pictures, I saw that it was set in a truly spectacular location wedged between the ocean and sharply rising mountainous peaks. It had now become a suburb of greater Cape Town. I was also pleasantly surprised that the climate in Cape Town was particularly good in mid-February. I wondered about Richard’s trip. It struck me as a bit odd that he would travel all the way to Cape Town for two nights only to travel back to Zanzibar for the rest of his trip. I guessed he was simply living up to his reputation as a globe trotter and in any case, I wasn’t complaining. After an hour, and satisfied I knew enough about Cape Town and Kalk Bay, I had a look at Zanzibar. An island in the Indian Ocean off the coast of the Republic of Tanzania. A long history of trade with the Arab nations and this was reflected in the architecture of the capital, Stone Town.
A maze of narrow streets, ancient buildings, and sultan’s palaces. The island was originally noted for the growing of spices, cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon, and pepper. For this reason, Zanzibar, and the surrounding islands were sometimes known as the Spice Islands. It was a place I had never given any thought to in the past and certainly never imagined I would visit.
I drank coffee and smoked as I browsed, taking in as much information as I could. Eventually at 4pm the waiting finally got to me. Frustrated, I called the Polish house cleaner to tell her I would be away for ten days and to carry on as usual in my absence. Then, after leaving her wages on the table, I packed my laptop away and called the minicab company. It was time to go. The prospect of the one hour tube journey to Heathrow followed by many, many hours stuck on an airplane to Cape Town was daunting. I decided I would wait downstairs for the cab and have a final smoke. I checked all the appliances were turned off, picked up my bags, locked the flat and made my way down.
As I stepped out onto the concrete pavement, there was a shrill wind racing up the street. It carried with it light stinging droplets of rain that appeared to be travelling sideways. The grey afternoon was darkening fast. A couple of hours and you’ll be out of here, Green, thank fuck for that. I thought as I lit my cigarette. The minicab arrived after two minutes. I crushed out my cigarette and loaded my bags into the car.
“Seven Sisters station please,” I said to the driver as I got in. The drive only took a few minutes but I was glad that I had ordered the cab. The driving rain was starting to come down hard. I paid as we arrived, got everything out and bought a newspaper at the entrance to the station. I got a one way ticket to Heathrow from the automated machine and headed through the ticket barrier and down into the gloomy bowels of London. As I travelled downwards on the escalator, the air became warmer and more humid. As I reached the platform, a train arrived. I quickly got my bags in and found a seat. It was just before rush hour so there were plenty.
I spent the next hour totally engrossed in my newspaper reading anything I could. Anything to avoid the nervous glances of the other passengers. Eventually, the train stopped at Heathrow. Gratefully, I disembarked with my bags and made my way up to ground level. The prospect of not having a cigarette until the following morning was worrying me. I found an area designated for smoking near a
bus stop. It had some overhanging roof for protection so I joined my fellow addicts for an absolute final. Heathrow was busy and hectic as usual. I made my way to the Virgin desk, checked my bag in and was given my boarding pass.
It made a refreshing change being in first class as there was no queueing in line. I cleared security and made my way into the departure lounges. There was nothing of interest for me in the shops so I looked around for the first class lounge for Virgin Airlines.
As I walked in I produced my ticket and boarding pass to a lady at the door. She inspected them, thanked me and ushered me in. It was a pleasant enough room with huge windows that looked out onto the runways and parked planes beyond. The whole area was lit with floodlights as it was totally dark outside. Men in reflective jackets were busy unloading baggage from planes and driving around in catering vans servicing the aircraft. I could see planes taking off and landing in the distance. I made my way to the bar and ordered a double Powers whiskey on the rocks. There were magazines of all kinds to choose from, so I picked up a few and made my way to a window seat to relax with my drink. I passed the time, flicking through the magazines and people watching. There were smart business travellers in suits busily talking on their cellphones and tapping away on computer, a few elderly passengers here and there for whom economy class was no longer an option, and a fair smattering of good looking women jealously guarding their privacy reading books and drinking mineral water.
I opened my laptop to have a look at what Richard was up to. The tracking page loaded up and I was surprised to see the Aston moving through the streets. He was obviously braving the Friday night traffic and driving to the airport. I figured he planned to use the long stay car park at Heathrow. That would be expensive but then I knew Richard wasn’t too concerned about money. I left the laptop open and made my way back to the bar for another drink. They were going down well. I was developing a taste for the fruity, smoky Irish tipple. When I got back to my computer the Aston was approaching Heathrow. I watched it enter the airport grounds and park as I sipped my drink. The stationary flashing light told me that he was now in the airport and more than likely checking in at the British Airways desk.
I could have gone back into the departure hall and waited for him to come through but I felt sure he would do the same as I had and go straight into the airline lounge. There was no point in watching him now. I would leave that for the next day in Cape Town. An hour later and with another double under my belt I packed away my computer and made my way to my gate. After a few more formalities with my passport and boarding pass I was ready to board. Outside the window was the huge glistening bulk of the jet aircraft in the night. I sat for a few minutes until the call for first class passengers came over the speaker.
As we walked down the boarding platform I heard the wind howl outside and felt the cold coming in through the gaps. I was grateful to be getting out of it. The stewardess greeted me with a well practised smile as I entered the aircraft. The first class cabin was upstairs from the rest and was modern and spacious. The huge comfortable seats each had large flat screens and work stations. I took my laptop computer and mp3 player out of my bag before packing it away in the storage unit above. I could get used to this I thought as I sank into the seat.
Soon after, a stewardess arrived with a glass of champagne. The glass was real and the champagne tasted real as well. The passenger next to me arrived. He was a massively overweight businessman in a suit. He packed his bag away in the compartment above, sat down, put his seatbelt on, and immediately went to sleep. At least he won’t be bothering me all night, I thought.
After half an hour the plane was fully loaded and the captain came on the intercom.
“Good evening ladies and gentlemen, and welcome on board this Virgin Airlines flight to Johannesburg, South Africa.”
He went on about the flight time and altitude etc. The stewardess started her emergency evacuation routine as the massive plane taxied towards the runway. Eventually we had the all clear for take off and I felt a twinge of excitement as the thrust pushed me back into the seat. I was pleased at how quiet the first class cabin was. I hated long haul flights. My fellow traveller next to me was out cold. After a while, drinks and an excellent dinner were served. The movie selection was standard airplane fare designed to relax and not offend in any way. I decided I would rather listen to music. I ordered one final drink and popped a sleeping tablet. It would take effect in half an hour. I only used sleeping tablets for long haul flights. I didn’t like the way they left me feeling groggy the next day but it was a necessary evil for an eleven and a half hour flight. I fitted the earphones, adjusted the seat to the sleeping position, and within half an hour I had drifted off to the sombre sounds of Leonard Cohen.
I awoke feeling someone gently shaking my shoulder. It was the stewardess from the previous evening.
“Wake up sir. We’re about to land in Johannesburg. You’ve missed breakfast. You were fast asleep. I hope that's ok?”
“Yes that's fine,” I said, still dazed. I asked for some water. I felt a little dehydrated as was always the case with long haul flights.
“Sure, I'll get you one right away,” she replied. As she went to get the water I lifted the window cover to one of the most beautiful sights on earth. Sunrise over Africa. Great swathes of orange and red were washing over the sleeping continent. It brought back a wave of memories as I realised that this was a sight I hadn’t seen in over twenty five years. Staring out at the spectacle with groggy nostalgia, all thoughts of Richard Lewer-Allen were far from my mind. My fellow passenger in the seat next to mine was awake too. He looked as tired as he had been the previous evening.
“Good morning, sleep well?” he asked.
“Morning, I did actually, didn't wake up once the whole night, amazing,” I replied.
“That's first class for you,” he said.
I returned my seat to the upright position as the giant aircraft made its descent. The huge gold mine dumps of Johannesburg glowed yellow below in the morning light. The sky above was completely blue, with not a cloud in sight. What a pleasure, I thought. Ten minutes later we landed and the huge OR Tambo airport lay to the left as we taxied towards the gate. It was a completely different airport to the one I had travelled through all those years ago. Back then it was called Jan Smuts International and was a pokey little place. This was now a major international hub with all the trappings of Heathrow or Schipol. Being in first class, we were the first to leave the airplane and make our way down the moveable stairway to the concrete below. My eyes were unaccustomed to the brightness and I had to fish my sunglasses from my hand luggage. Even at 9 in the morning, the temperature was around 23 degrees, I removed my jacket as I boarded the waiting bus. The packet of cigarettes in my chest pocket were starting to burn a hole. I wondered if there would be a smoking area between the international and the domestic terminal. The first class and business class bus made its way to the huge airport building as the rest of the passengers were made to wait.
We exited the bus and made our way into the building and up an escalator towards the immigration area. There were twenty separate lines bordered off with groups of people queuing. The passengers with South African passports were moving through quickly while the rest of us were made to wait. Eventually, after an infuriating twenty minute wait I made it to the immigration official.
It took her two minutes to process my passport and stick the holiday visa into it. Then I was through and on my way to the baggage reclaim. I quickly ducked into the gents restroom to wash up and brush my teeth while I waited for the luggage to appear. When I got out I was pleased to see that the circling baggage claim was already turning with bags. Presently my bag appeared. The small padlock was still in place on the zipper.
I grabbed it and made my way to the exit into the arrivals hall. There were two choices, the red route and the green route for those who had nothing to declare. I was worried about the surveillance equipment I was carrying but decided to go straig
ht through the green route. There were a mixture of white and coloured, male and female customs officials strategically positioned in the green route. I felt their eyes on me as I walked. I made an effort to look bored and tired as I moved. A young lady in front of me was politely asked to stop and place her bags on a metal table. I carried on moving and in a few seconds I was through into the arrivals hall. There were hundreds of people with expectant faces, waiting for friends and relatives on either side of rope barriers. I walked quickly through them, my eyes darting around the massive bright advertising boards looking for an exit sign. To my left I saw a sign which read, Taxi rank, Exit, Domestic Terminal. I made a beeline to this and, as I walked out, I saw groups of fellow smokers gratefully puffing away on the pavement. The place was bustling with buses, taxis, cars. I lit a cigarette and took a deep draw with relief. It felt good to see the colourful people of Africa again. There was a strip roof high above us, but I could see the blue sky above. It was liberating to feel the cool breeze on my arms. I felt free and relieved not to have layer upon layer of clothes constricting my movements. I was acutely aware that time was short and I would have to rush to the domestic terminal to make the connecting flight to Cape Town.
I started moving down the concrete pavement as I smoked. I crushed out my cigarette as I arrived at the smaller domestic terminal. I fished out the ticket for the connecting flight. It was a local airline called Air-link. I made my way to the desk. I was greeted by a dark-haired Afrikaans woman with a heavy accent.
“Good morning sir, ticket and ID please.” I gave a half smile as I handed over the documents.
The unforgettably thick accent brought back all manner of memories from my youth.
The Jason Green series Box Set Page 8
