it's a long flight. the second flight is a long flight. they are long flights. when we disembark in Dar es Salaam, i feel like i've been thrown from a train. i'm still rolling, unsure if i'm hurt or not. waiting for the motion to stop so i can check myself. we are shepherded through immigration -- slowly, but with smiles -- and head for the loo. the sign says men to the left, women to the right. we part ways. we walk our prospective halls in silence and turn corners to see each other, forced to awkwardly cross paths to reach the right stalls.

the facilities are limited here.

days later, we wander out into the exposed tidal flats of Kiwengwa, Zanzibar - a kilometer or so of calf-deep water that we'd been watching from the infiniti pool. the tide comes in, the tide goes out. the sunscreen goes on, the tusker beer arrives from the bar. this is how the story goes. our resort is the best. unlike the italian jobs down the beach, ours isn't god-awful and swarmed with touts. ours is small. ours is run by zanzibaris. ours is ours. The Shooting Star. but the tidal flats. we wander out and are adopted by a fisherman in a red Arsenal t-shirt. he carries a pole-spear and a net and a bag. he guides us to the first fringing reef. we slice our feet on the coral and take some urchin with us in our soles. (we take some urchin with us in our souls later, i guess.) there, smiling gap-toothed, he shows us his catch; parrotfish, snapper and a four-foot dangling octopus. on the way in, a tentacle escapes his bag and trails behind him.

dogo, at the natural stone aquarium, tells me he cannot kiss the turtle as it is ramazan and kissing is forbidden. but me? will i kiss it? no thanks. i do swim with them though, feeding the young green turtles seaweed that's bright green, like my shorts. have you ever had a turtle bite your ass? i have. i guess it wasn't observing ramazan.

at Ras Nungwi, the uber-posh resort on the north coast, they unlock the gate for us; me, bartlebee, dan and jane -- two brits we teamed up with for a rental car. we walk down the hushed hallway and ask if we can get a drink at the bar. the zanzibari at the desk squirms. he asks inside the office and a european man comes out, looks at us, and says in the least welcoming voice i've heard in a while, "you are welcome to use our facilities." the facilities again. we use them. a tom collins for me, thanks. the place is vast and quiet and cold. perfect for impressing your trophy wife or staging an agatha christie murder mystery. i feel too colonial there to be comfortable.

so we end up in Kendwa, a picture-perfect beach on the north-east coast. and that is the extent of the plans. except trying to plan to do away with plans. i'd be happier if i was more relaxed. a while in Kendwa will help.

we've got our heads up about the Tanzanian elections, so don't worry about us.

kwaheri.