Dar es Salaam, Tanzania (our sixth continent! ... only Antarctica remains to be visited)

Our anxiety was on high alert as we landed in Africa due to the uncertainty - we had heard such varied reports between friends, government warnings, and our own biases: rampant corruption, pure natural beauty, tourists being taken advantage of, warm and open local people, lack of safety, and also no safety problems.  Our friends from Turkey connected us with their friends in Tanzania (we’ve learned to never turn down an introduction) and arranged an airport pick up for us.  I had completed the requisite visa paperwork before departing the U.S., so customs and immigration was uneventful.  We grabbed our checked luggage and immediately upon exiting the airport our glasses fogged up from the humidity and sweat drenched our clothes.

Stepping out of baggage claim, two local boys aged four and six stood in the front row of a throng of people awaiting the arriving passengers, their hand-made signs in crayon read, “Mahaba Beach” (translation: Romantic Beach).  We quickly learned our host had driven to Dar es Salaam with her kids to pick us up.  We piled into their minivan and drove north through the urban streets.  

In all directions, the lanes teemed with makeshift vendors selling everything imaginable from second hand t-shirts, mobile phones, tomatoes, charcoal to cement blocks.  Much of the merchandise was carefully laid out on floor mats on the sidewalk.  The blaring audible car horns, accompanied by the smell of humidity, and the visual bright colors (blue houses, soccer jerseys, multi-colored signs, yellow bananas) was overwhelming to the maiden African arrival.  I sat quietly in the back seat in awe of the scene, as dust swirled around the car.  Many of the people wore their finest attire as they walked home from church with families in tow.  Boys with ice cream carts sauntered through the traffic as we sat in gridlock.  Another boy, uninvited, started washing our windshield in hopes of money.  

After driving 40 km along coastal villages we arrived to our destination, shocked: an isolated white sand beach, turquoise water, local fishermen's boats anchored, swaying coconut trees, and NO tourists.  Literally post card perfect, we exchanged glances and high-fived unable to believe our luck!

Definitely not in the Lonely Planet guide, our hosts owned a small beach lodge that catered to the local well-to-do.  The property included a giant open-air thatch roof hut where up to 40 people could eat; a smaller hut 30 feet from the Indian Ocean that served as the bar, three smallish guest huts, two larger duplex-style guest houses, a reception hut, and the owners house.  Our room was one side of a duplex, which housed a bed (with mosquito net of course) and a bathroom.

The entire beachfront property was covered in sand with tropical pink and purple flowers lining the perimeter.  It sat south of Bagomoyo facing east to the island of Zanzibar.  Palm trees held up hammocks; the ocean so warm it could have been a giant hot tub.  On the south side of the property a Muslim fishing village contained a blue roofed mosque and an unpaved main street with 20 huts on each side.  To the north, a fish market auctioned off the local daily catch (we heard them every day at 3pm over the loud speakers).  Beyond that was the bush (scrappy trees and grasses).

For dinner the German chef served up fresh (we knew it was fresh because the fishermen were all sitting at our bar) kingfish, calamari, and sole.  Our days consisted of lounging in the shade, drinking beer or coconut juice, and practicing our Swahili.  On the downside, the water pressure was slight, the electricity sporadic, the ants crawled everywhere, the mosquitos swarmed at night, and the village was littered with plastic bags and trash... but when you’re in paradise you can hardly be bothered by such inconveniences.

“Classic Ken” line from the day, after I told him he was being too picky about something, “I’m not picky... I just have strong preferences.”