Escape from Paradise
by Sara John
I was being bundled, manhandled, wrapped in a satin cloak and placed precariously behind a man who was riding a large white stallion. “Hold on to my waist, tightly”, he instructed me, “you are safe now”. I recognised the voice; it was my eldest brother. He had come to rescue me. I could see a dhow in the distance waiting for us to sail back to Zanzibar, to the Palace, to my father, a hundred black cats and the gardens full of lemons, pomegranates, grapes and strawberries. Then I woke up. I had been dreaming. The air conditioning went off with a loud noise. It was time to get up. We were in Tanzania. Staying in the ‘best’ hotel, in Dar es Salaam. The name means Haven of Peace. The air conditioning came on at night when it was cool but did not put in an appearance during the day when it was hot, really hot. My husband had undertaken a consultancy project for the UN reporting on the feasibility of providing Tanzania with a television service. At that time I was also, but quite separately, involved in providing various training courses for companies and organisations. My next assignment was delivering workshops, back in Cardiff, on Management Skills for editors of newspapers from Commonwealth countries. This included, the following month, the editor of the Tanzania Financial Times whom I had by now, met at the paper’s HQ in the city. I was delighted that our projects were colliding both timewise and geographically! In two days time we would be travelling back to the UK after saying goodbye to the magnificent
Golden Laburnum trees in the Botanical Gardens, planted when Tanzania was known as German East Africa, which by now, were as high as a ten storey building. Goodbye to the harbour with vendors, some of whom could be mistaken for Sinbad the Sailor, cooking and selling fish of all smells, shapes and sizes (none of which could be found in Harrods Food Hall or Ashtons in Cardiff Market). A farewell also to very beautiful Masai girls dressed in lengths of soft hessian simply tied on one shoulder, with a large bib of beads around their necks. Their grace, elegance and sheer simplicity were a joyful sight. Many of them had babies or young children with them who were naked except for a miniature version of their mother’s jewellery. The Masai were selling ‘spells’. I was reminded of the cosmetics departments in the big shops in town, not so long ago, also unknowingly selling ‘spells’ but calling the products “perfume”. Both selling the same promises but under quite different circumstances. Some of the Masai spoke a little English, as I found when I started to chat with them. I soon discovered that their customers would ask for help with a problem, then, a spell would be written in homemade blue ink on a piece of paper. The paper would be rolled up and put in a lidded jam jar of water. The customer would then take it home and, drink the, by now, inky water! I was told amongst a lot of giggling that the most usual problem being presented and requiring help would be the improvement of a husband’s ‘marital responsibilities’. I will leave that one with you. Back to early morning and waking up. I
38 CARDIFF TIMES
