The Jason Green series Box Set

by Gordon Wallis

  “Jambo!” he said, “welcome to Tanzania!”

  “Thank you,” I replied suspiciously.

  “Do you see that office over there sir?” he said pointing to a large square glass cubicle near a taxi rank. “That is my office. I am a travel agent. I can help you to get to where you want to go. Anywhere in Tanzania.”

  I figured I had nothing to lose. The place did indeed look like an official office. It was pasted with flight times and various special offers.

  “I need to get to Zanzibar,” I said taking another draw on the cigarette.

  “Zanzibar?” He asked with wide eyes. Then he looked at his watch and dug in his pocket for his cell phone. He motioned me to follow him to the office as he spoke to the person on the phone. When we arrived at the office he made his way inside and came to speak to me from the counter.

  “I have a flight sir, leaving in half an hour from the domestic terminal. The carrier is Tropical Air. It is a light aircraft which takes only ten people at a time. Here is the pamphlet for Tropical Air,” he said passing me a glossy print showing the aircraft and logo etc.

  “The next available flight is at 4pm, sir. I have spoken to my people from Tropical Air and there is a seat available for you in half an hour from now.”

  It seemed to be kosher. The pamphlet was real. There was a poster on the glass wall with flight times and prices for the small airline. The price for a one way flight across to Zanzibar was US$55.

  “Are you sure you can get me on this flight in half an hour?” I asked, feigning suspicion.

  “Yes! Certainly I can. Maybe you will give me something for arranging it for you, sir?” He said with a twinkle in his eye.

  “But you are already getting your commission from the airline!” I said, enjoying the African banter.

  “Ah ok, no problem sir. Can I write your ticket?”

  “Yes go ahead please.” He busied himself with the ticket as I drew the cash from my wallet. I asked him if he would accompany me to the domestic terminal to which he agreed. Once everything was done he stepped out of his cubicle and carried my larger bag to a waiting cab. A few words in Swahili were exchanged and we got in. The heat was pounding through the roof of the car as we drove off.

  “How far is the domestic terminal from here?” I asked. “It's very close sir. Two minutes.”

  “And how much will you charge me to drive there?” I asked the driver.

  “Only $10 sir!” He replied helpfully.

  I smiled and shook my head as we drove off. $10 was an outrageous fee for such a short trip. Africa. It was great to be back. We arrived in two minutes as promised. The domestic terminal was even more ramshackle than the international one - a small building with dark corridors and baggage trolleys stacked high. We were greeted by an official from Tropical Air. She seemed flustered and anxious to check my ticket and get my large bag onto a trolley. I worried about leaving my bag unattended in the dark corridor but she assured me that it was safe and would always be in my view from the front room. I made my way to the front room and sure enough I had a clear line of vision back to the luggage trolley.

  It was stuffy and hot inside, and the sun blazed through the bay windows that looked out onto the concrete and the waiting plane. It was a twin engine prop, silver in colour with overhead wings that would give a good view of the trip to the island. A small group of people waited with me. Some dabbed at their foreheads with handkerchiefs to wipe away beads of sweat.

  After a few minutes we were all ushered through the doors and out onto the concrete to make our way to the plane. Once again I was acutely aware of the blistering heat as I walked. The large baggage trolley was also on its way out and I noticed my bag on top of it. A few ground crew busied themselves loading the pile of bags into the small storage space to the rear of the aircraft whilst we squeezed in through a small swinging door to the cramped seating area. My seat was directly under the wing next to a large window. I asked a lady who was sat to my left how long the flight was and was told it was only fifteen to twenty minutes. Although I was sweaty, cramped, and uncomfortable I was looking forward to the short hop to the island.

  Eventually, the baggage door was closed and a Ray Ban-wearing pilot in his thirties arrived and started his pre-flight checks. Once done he turned around and briefed us all on safety precautions and emergency procedures. His was a strong Afrikaans accent spoken in a very laid back voice. I guessed the heat of this part of the world made everyone appear a bit dreamy and slow. After a few more checks he fired the noisy engines and we began to move towards the runway. Once in position he radioed the tower for clearance to take off and we began slowly trundling down the runway. The plane vibrated heavily and the noise of the engines was deafening. It seemed to me that the small plane was badly overloaded and would never get off the ground, but eventually it did and slowly we made our way skywards. Below me were thousands of tiny shanty houses. Their tin roofs baked brown and rust coloured by the scorching sun. Soon we flew over some more affluent areas with avenues and trees until eventually we were over what looked like the main city of Dar Es Salaam with its large buildings and public squares. We continued north east for a good five minutes and the air in the small plane became cooler and cooler till eventually we were over the sea. I shook my head in awe at the colours of the water. The white beaches gave way to pale blue completely transparent sea, which in turn gave way to the dark shapes of coral reefs.

  After this the water turned a deep indigo. I could clearly see the coral and rock formations on the sea bed and the odd Arab dhow sailing vessel making its way across the waveless ocean. I sat there totally mesmerised and stared out for the next ten minutes. My mind was in another place. I could no longer hear the sound of the engines or feel the turbulence of the flight. Perhaps the hectic events of the past days had caught up with me but I didn't care a bit. I felt alive for the first time in ages. I was full of energy. Full of the enthusiasm and vitality that comes with travelling to new and exotic places. I felt a spirit of adventure and discovery. A feeling one gets when travelling into the unknown with no idea what to expect.

  I was suddenly snapped out of my daydream by the sound of the engines changing as the pilot dropped the revs and began his descent.

  In front of me in the distance was the island. It was lush, green and jungle-like from the air and was surrounded by a perfect white beach. I had been lucky getting the flight so fast after my arrival in Dar Es Salaam. The thought of the later 4pm flight would have meant a long, hot, and boring wait at the airport. Worse still would have been a three hour ferry ride from the docks. I was early and would have time to have a look around and get my bearings. It was all good. The plane made its noisy descent over the impossibly blue water till we were over the island and approaching the airport. I could see palm trees and thick green jungle everywhere with the odd tin roof house squeezed in between. I couldn't see out of the front window of the plane as the nose was raised but a few tense seconds later we made an extremely bumpy landing. The wings on either side of the aircraft bounced up and down like diving boards. We sped along with the engines roaring until eventually we slowed and began taxiing towards some buildings ahead of us to our left. A minute later we had stopped moving and the pilot cut the fuel. The engine to my right sputtered and the propeller stopped with a jerk. The Afrikaans pilot in front removed his bulky headset and hung it on the controls. Still wearing his dark aviator sunglasses, he turned around slowly in his seat to face us. He was slightly unshaven and had obviously styled his black hair with gel. He was a mixture of comical and cool. After a brief pause he spoke with the same lazy, laid back voice as before.

  “Welcome to Zanzibar,” he said.

  Chapter Nine - Zanzibar

  The heat had returned before the passengers had time to disembark. When I finally got out and stepped onto the concrete runway I glanced around at my surroundings. Apart from a few light aircraft, the airport was empty. The main building was squat and in need of a coat of paint. The only m
odern feature was the large darkened window to the front which served as a viewing area for the departure hall. All around the perimeter was lush tropical bush with tall palm trees popping up here and there. We made our way to the arrivals door and entered. It was dark inside and it took a few seconds for my eyes to become accustomed to it. To call the room basic was an understatement. Twenty metres ahead of me was the exit of the building and I could see the taxi and minibus drivers waiting like vultures outside. There were no immigration procedures and only a few official-looking staff sitting around joking with each other. After a while, a large door to my left opened and a hand cart was pushed inside by a sweaty young man. I saw my bags immediately and grabbed them before heading out for a cigarette. I stood outside, smoking and taking in my surroundings. On my right was what appeared to be the main road into Stone Town. In front of me was the main parking area which had been planted with Japanese cycads and other greenery. Under the trees sat the taxi bosses - Indian and black men in traditional Muslim gowns waiting for business. As the other passengers made their way out they began to ask for destinations and to negotiate fares. A few of them approached me but soon saw that I was in no rush to move and was relaxing with my cigarette. They went on to harass the other passengers.

  Slowly they all got into the vehicles. Some agreeing to share a minibus into Stone Town to reduce the fare for each of them. I noticed a thin black man with sunglasses standing in the shade in the distance, leaning on an old Toyota. On the side of the vehicle, the words Taxi Service were painted in bright red. I decided I would give him a try seeing as he was the least insistent of the bunch. I slowly made my way across the boiling tarmac towards him.

  “Jambo,” he said in a quiet voice. I knew from the guide book that this meant ‘hello’ in Swahili. I replied accordingly.

  “Where would you like to go, sir?” he asked.

  “I am going to Paje. How far is that and how much will you charge me?”

  Being closer to him I could see that he was in his mid-sixties. He grinned at me with a few missing teeth.

  “Paje is fifty kilometres from here, sir and I will charge you US$30. It is the usual fare for this journey, sir. I don't need to be like these guys and try to over charge you,” he said, motioning towards the younger, more aggressive drivers. Thirty dollars for a fifty kilometre trip sounded fair to me and it was on the other side of the island.

  “Right, that sounds ok to me, let’s go,” I said.

  He quickly took up my luggage and placed it in the boot of the vehicle.

  “Would you like to sit in the front or the back seat sir?” he asked courteously.

  “I'm happy in the front if that's alright with you?”

  “Certainly sir” he replied. I got into the car and noticed the heavy material seat covers in a gaudy burgundy colour. It was going to be a sweaty drive. We reversed out of the shaded area and made our way towards the main road where we turned left.

  “Do we drive through Stone Town on the way or is there a road which goes straight across the island?” I asked.

  “To get to Paje sir, we will turn right just before Stone Town and cross what we call New Town. There we will find the road which goes to the east coast, Paje, Jambiani and the other towns. But I can take you to see Stone Town if you would like to?” he said hopefully.

  “No thanks. Some other time perhaps. I have to get to my hotel and I have things to do.”

  “No problem sir.” I was impressed with his mild manner and careful command of English.

  “You speak very good English. Are you from Zanzibar?” I asked.

  He turned with the toothless grin again.

  “Thank you sir. Yes I was born in Zanzibar. I come from Paje myself so I am very happy to get a fare back home. And by the way my name is Hassan.”

  “Nice to meet you. My name is Jason,” I replied.

  We talked as we drove down what was the biggest road in Zanzibar. We passed what looked like a few government buildings, some service stations, and schools. I was struck by the greenery and tidiness of what I had seen so far. The locals seemed to be well-dressed and tidy, especially the women. Being a Muslim island they were required to follow a strict dress code and not reveal any shoulders or legs.

  “Mr Jason, sir, we are going to turn right here. Ahead of us is Stone Town. We will now drive through New Town for ten minutes to reach our road.”

  “That is fine” I said.

  So far we had been inland all the way. I had hoped to see some coastline but I needed to get to my hotel and do my job, so I made do with taking in the surroundings from the car. New Town was nothing like the pictures I had seen of the World Heritage site of Stone Town with its intricate narrow cobbled streets and bazaars. It was more of the third world and was obviously where the majority of Zanzibari people lived. There were tatty-looking five storey blocks of flats with peeled paint and broken windows. Shirtless young kids kicked soccer balls made from waste plastic to each other on the sides of the bustling streets. There were a myriad of colourful stalls selling everything from phone cards to generators and bicycles. Loud music blared from crammed shopfronts and vehicles hooted in the dust and chaos. It was what I had expected and I wasn't disappointed. The place was an assault on the senses and I was enjoying the drive. Every few minutes Hassan would take a cloth from the side console and wipe the sweat from his face. I made do with the sleeve of my shirt.

  After a while we began to leave the built up area of New Town and move into a more wooded area, where the road began to dip and wind through massive trees. In amongst the trees were scattered dwellings and small factories. Hassan and I smoked and chatted as we gained speed while avoiding pot holes.

  “So you live in Paje?” I asked.

  “Yes Mr. Jason, I have lived there all my life but I come to Stone Town everyday for work. I will give you my number so if you need me to drive you anywhere I will be available for you, hakuna matata!”

  I smiled at his last words. They meant ‘no worries’ in Swahili.

  “Ok,” I said, “that's fine.”

  Our trip continued for another fifteen minutes until we were stopped at a police road block. Hassan slowly pulled the car up to the boom in the road where we were met by an extremely fat and sweaty policeman wearing a white uniform. I sat silently as Hassan spoke warmly to the man, whom he clearly knew. I understood nothing of what they said but it obviously was cordial as we were on our way within a minute.

  “Mr Jason, we are now approaching the Jozani Forest. It is a very famous area and is well-known for the red colobus monkey which is found almost everywhere. Maybe one day you would like to stop and visit this place. It is very popular with the tourists.” He was playing the tour guide very well.

  “Ok, well we’ll see about that. Another day perhaps,” I replied.

  “Hakuna matata,” he said. We drove through the forest which was basically a tropical jungle. Dark, green and almost impenetrable. Long vines hung from the canopy and thousands of brightly coloured birds flew in the dappled shade. The road dipped and curved as we drove and I realised that this was probably the highest region of the island. We had been driving for 40 minutes when we started to leave the forest area and began approaching a flatter, drier part of the island.

  “Very soon we will come to another road block where we will turn right. Then from there it is only five minutes to Paje. Which hotel will you be staying at Mr. Jason?”

  “I am staying at the Paje Village Hotel.”

  “Hakuna matata,” came the reply.

  We made our way through the road block and turned right down a sun-baked tar road which was almost white in colour. Five minutes later, as promised, we came to a small village with a line of palm trees to the left.

  I could see from the sand on either side of the baked road that we were now near the beach. To my left was a road with a line of shacks and old buildings. On the right under a huge tree were two taxis. Their drivers were sitting on a wooden bench in the shade. They waved ent
husiastically at Hassan as we passed. I kept glancing to my left to get a view of the sea but it was obviously a few hundred metres away and I never once got a glimpse. A minute later we turned left onto a dusty road and began approaching a long wicker fence with a gate to the centre. Above us was a mixture of fir and pine trees.

  “This is the Paje Village Hotel, Mr Jason. I will drive you to the reception area and drop you there unless you need me for something else?” Hassan asked optimistically.

  “I think I'm ok for today Hassan, but please give me your number and I will call you if I need you. Oh, and another thing,” I said, “where is the Eden Beach Lodge from here?”

  “Eden Beach Lodge is that way sir,” he said pointing to our right.

  “Ok, that's fine, thanks very much.”

  I had got lucky once again. I liked the polite and soft-spoken Hassan, and I decided I would use his services in the coming days. As we got to the high wicker gate he hooted briefly and the gate was opened by a Masai security guard in full tribal regalia. He stood tall and dark in his dark red outfit and wore a large panga knife in an animal skin sheath on his side. We drove through the gate on the sandy road and pulled up to a thatched reception area. Hassan passed me a tatty business card which I pocketed as I got out of the car. A smart young man in black trousers and a white shirt came out to greet me.

  “Welcome To Paje Village Hotel sir,” he said with a smile as he approached me with his hand outstretched.