Howling at the Moon

So, back to Friday 24th June, the night of the Full Moon. And we all know what Full Moon plus Tropical Paradise Island means, don't we, boys and girls? Yep, it was time for a Full Moon Party (after a rather pleasant fish BBQ on the beach for dinner). However, the slight fly in the ointment was that the venue was several kms down the beach from Nungwi. With my feet still recovering from the ravages of being eaten to bits by sandflies back when we were in Dar, not to mention a disastrous flirtation with some local leather sandals (not a good idea), I was an enthusiastic adherent to the idea of getting a local dhow down the coast as a kind of water taxi. What I, and the 20 or so others on the boat, had not counted on was that peculiar combination of running out of petrol, driving into fishing nets (thus fouling the propellor) and anything else that can go wrong in the manifestation of Murphy's Law that is much of East Africa.

Eventually, what should have been a journey of 15 minutes or so took us the best part of an hour, but we got there, in one piece (apart from frayed nerves). The party itself wasn't exactly what I'd expected - unlike what I've heard about in Thailand, this wasn't just a madcap beach party around a bunch of bonfires, but was actually based around a bar complex. The good news, at least compared to much of the rest of our travels in Africa, was that it wasn't just the mzungu backpackers and the like there, but a lot of the locals as well, which made for a bit more of a lively atmosphere. With my wounded feet, I couldn't join in much of the dancing (for those acquainted with me an dancing, you'll be aware this is probably a good thing), but it was good to enjoy the atmosphere for a while. Eventually (around 3am or so), a load of us started off for the walk back up the beach (changing occasionally to a wade, as we had left it to the last minute to beat the rising tide) and crashed out back at Nungwi.

The next day brought the suddenly unfamiliar prospect of packing up and moving on again, after the untold luxury of 3 nights in the same place (and no tents involved!). We piled onto a suddenly less full minibus, having left our 5 medic friends, along with Jane and Vicky, back at Nungwi (Jo and Jacqueline had departed the previous day) - at a stroke, 1/3 of the populace of White Nile had vanished, leaving things a little quieter and a small empty place in my heart. As was once said most memorably, parting is such sweet sorrow, and when you've been spending almost all of your time for 2 weeks with people, it's hard to leave them behind. But we had to move on, so it was back on a very somnolent bus to Stone Town, there to connect with the catamaran back to the mainland, and on across the harbour ferry to Mikadi Beach and our truck.

That night in Mikadi, I consoled myself with a few more slushies and got chatting with a couple of girls at the bar, only to find myself in the most extraordinary example of "It's A Small World..." I've ever had when travelling. The 2 lasses were over working in a school in Tanzi as part of their gap year, and we got chatting, exchanging tales etc. I then found out that one of them, Clare, is from Caldecote. Yes, the same tiny back-end-of-nowhere village outside Cambridge where I grew up. One which, until a few years ago, only had a few hundred inhabitants. Not only that, Clare was also a pupil at Kings' School in Cambridge, where I spent a few brief years, and apparently started in their pre-prep classes the year after I left. To top this off, her friend, Anna, is from Croxley Green (near Watford), about 2 streets over from my cousins. Now if that ain't one of the world's bigger coincidences, to run into these two randomly in a bar in a campsite in the southern suburbs of Dar-Es-Salaam, I don't know what is. Spooky.

Anyways, it is time to go. Hope you are all well. Until I write again, farewell.