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

contemplated the day ahead and what we had done since arriving. My first and best view of what had been Tanganika when I was at school, was on the flight overnight from Heathrow to Dar a couple of weeks previously. The passengers were asked if we wished to be woken as we were flying over Kilimanjaro then stopping briefly at Arusha airport. All the first timers on this adventurous route said yes! The base of Kili as it is affectionately known, is larger than that of Greater London. And it is said to be the biggest free-standing mountain in the world. Spectacular! In the very early morning light and just south of the Equator. And, it was well topped with thick white snow.

I recalled walking into the hotel in Dar, a homage to the architecture of the seventies. Plenty of orange and purple with details borrowed from Top of the Pops of that decade. Warm welcome, help with luggage, lots of smiles and friendly helpful staff with big smiles. We felt most welcome. Nice grounds, inviting swimming pool. There was a clear notice in the bathroom advising guests NOT to drink the water. Turning on the tap proved to the thirsty, new to sub-Saharan Africa guests, that the notice meant what it said. The water was very dark brown. It was, of course customary to drink bottled water. We had arranged to meet one of the broadcast engineers for lunch at the hotel, Richard, who was well travelled and highly experienced in avoiding risks. He brought the restaurant to a standstill by enquiring, very seriously, of the waitress, about the life story of the ice cubes. He was asking, slowly in English if “the water the ice cubes were made from had been boiled BEFORE freezing?” The conversation became prolonged; neither party comprehending the other.

Later that evening, as we walked through a large lounge furnished with lovely huge squashy sofas of various colours, we were surprised to see so many very well-dressed ladies, not really together but not apart either. Then, in my head, I heard the words of the Senior nurse at the British Airways Clinic in Cardiff warning my husband that he was the target customer for these seemingly friendly and possibly lonely ladies! I can hear her now laying down the law…… “Under No circumstances….” They were very well presented but they were ‘working girls’, ‘working the night shift’ that is. Richard the engineer warned me about the beggars outside the Hotel. “Do not speak to them or give them money!” But I had already spoken to a man who looked about two hundred years old, given him money and saw his thin fleshless arms. With no hands. He had had leprosy years before and the only way to survive was to beg. He had no English, but we said “Salaam” each day. The Prime Minister had announced that week that beggars were to be cleared off the streets and bussed up country. They were that Monday. By Wednesday they were all back in their spots and open again for business. Walking along the streets, seeking shade, it was easy to feel overwhelmed by people, beggars, small children seeking alms, men in djellabas (long cotton gowns) many of them cycling in them, a lot of noisy traffic and terrific heat. You also needed to take great care that a falling, ripe pineapple did not hit

you on the head. The pineapples were almost the size and weight of a bag of cement, the sort of thing you saw at home being delivered by Jewsons. I recalled the white sands of the beaches, fringed by palms, beautiful tropical flowers, the bath water temperature of the Indian Ocean, the paradise that is this stretch of coast.

We made a visit to Bagamoya, forty-five miles from Dar, and visited the Mission Church there. We were told by the local Catholic priest that David Livingstone died as he knelt in prayer in a village hut close to Lake Victoria in what is now eastern Zambia. His faithful Zanzibari servants Abdulla Susi and James Chuma cut out his heart, and buried it under a tree, then took nine months to help carry his sun-dried remains, wrapped in bark to the coast. On arrival in Bagamoya, the men laid down their burden outside the Mission Church, where they announced “Mwili Daudi - The body of David”. With British help they later took the body to London where he was later buried in Westminster Abbey. But his heart, forever, remains in Africa. Then the phone rang in our hotel bedroom. It was Richard the engineer who needed to speak to my husband urgently. Richard had set off home to Scotland the previous day so, I presumed he wanted to report that he has arrived safe and sound.

Richard was neither.

He was not safe at home because he was still at Dar airport. Not sound but furious! He explained that his Air Tanzania flight had failed to take off as scheduled and that all subsequent flights were cancelled. He was being re-routed and attempting to find another flight back to Heathrow but warned us that the team’s return to the UK was also in jeopardy. My husband and I were due to travel home the next day with other project team members who were returning to Dar from ‘up country’ that afternoon. They had been on field trips around the vast country, for a few weeks, seeking potential transmitter sites.

That day, being our final day, my husband had arranged meetings with government officials, politicians and others, thereby taking up the whole day, as he hoped to complete that important stage of the project. On being asked what I had planned to do that day I knew what was coming next. Could I take the redundant plane tickets, and seek to transfer them to a passage home with another airline? He explained that it was essential to get the team back home after their gruelling time up country. I thought to myself that the request (to perform miracles - just like that - and in Africa) was rather like those exercises used by the Armed Services who were selecting would be spies for special missions.

It was still early, before eight o’clock I recall, so we walked into the centre passing the Askari stone Monument of a member of the King’s Own African Rifles. A solitary rifleman stood poised on a dais which featured a clock and a thermometer It was eight o’clock in the morning and 104F degrees. We said goodbye and went in separate directions. I started my day with a visit to the office of Air Tanzania. The door was open but there was no one there. I bashed the bell on the counter and a girl

appeared from a back office. She saw me and she fled before I had chance to speak. Okay, waste of time. Onwards and upwards. Next was Air France. Friendly and pleasant but nothing available. Gulf Air. Again, very pleasant and sympathetic but, no availability. U.A.E. Yes, they could help, yes, four of us. It was a long way round changing at least four times but a chance to see lots of the Middle East, Petra, the Nile, Suez Canal! Please come back to us, they said, if you are not successful, we’ll help if we can. Last chance was Swissair. I was getting so worried that I was braver than usual and planning Plan Z. In case you are wondering it would have involved a sea journey, in a rented dhow through the Suez Canal (if allowed) and a lazy cruise westwards through the Med. With lots of stops. Going into the immaculate Swissair offices was like falling into the arms of the Red Cross. “Coffee?” Rosenthal china with the gold rim? Fresh, clean air chilled to perfection. “Yes, we have our own generators”. Yes Yes Yes. Four seats for four people, please select your preferred places. I think we can upgrade you to Business class. Is that good with you? Here are your new tickets. I decided I must have fallen down a large pothole when attempting to cross the road and I was having very pleasant hallucinations. Was I on a journey to another existence? Is this what it is like - as a first stage perhaps - of leaving this world and going on to the next? Finding oneself in a Swissair Ticket Office, well south of the Sahara run by extraordinarily human looking angels? Tickets were checked and exchanged and off I went, about one foot up and off the pavement, filled with relief. I hurried round to my husband’s office clutching my bag with the trophy tickets. “Guess What! Guess What! I’ve got them! Tickets!! Tomorrow we all fly to Zurich, we have a thirty-minute wait there for our flight to Heathrow” I announced, then collapsed in a heap of tears when trying to recall the Swiss National Anthem so we could sing it on the way back to the Hotel.

That evening, as arranged we met two other members of the technical team who had spent some time travelling around the country attempting to match the actual country with their one and only map of Tanganika - yes, it was an old map but better than nothing. Both had been troubled by illnesses, poor nutrition, overnight accommodation problems and realising that the total lack of maps then (different now) was due to a total lack of surfaced roads. Up country meant just that. They both looked tired and exhausted.

We had a very pleasant evening together, with no mention of Air Tanzania.

Next day we were taken to the airport and welcomed aboard the beautiful jet that would take us north again. I might add that all the passengers were thoroughly sprayed with disinfectant by a golden cabin crew, even us four who were going Business Class, before being allowed to board. Changing planes at Geneva Airport was Swiss watch easy and reliable and when I went to buy a glossy magazine, I was given my change in gold foil covered (Swiss) chocolate coins in a gold mesh bag. Enjoying a brief nap flying over the Alps I dreamed again of being on a dhow but homeward bound, sailing up the Taff from the Bay with all the local cats lining the route and waving. I think Treorchy Male Voice were assembled in the Castle Grounds and were in good voice. Then I heard another voice, a familiar voice saying, “We have landed, make sure you have all your belongings”. “Yes darling”, I answered. We are home, I said to myself. Safe and Sound.