Island and we are going to the Small Island, how big can the next plane be?
I look around at my fellow passengers. We are not more than ten and that worries me too. There are large men clad in white kanzus (I’m already using the local language thanks to the Teach Yourself Swahili booklet I bought in Dar es Salaam) and kofia , which I just learned is what their finely stitched cap is called. Judging from their potbellies and thick gold watches they seem rather affluent. A couple of them have small-sized wives sitting next to them, wrapped in the black cape they call buibui . The men talk loudly, mostly among themselves or on old-fashioned Nokias—only a few have smartphones—whereas the wives don’t flinch. They are as still as pillars of salt surrounded by hefty bundles and boxes. I can see baskets brimming with mangoes, cartons containing some household appliances, an electric fan, a kettle, a DVD player. They must’ve been shopping on the mainland; I didn’t see any shopping opportunities for such items as kettles or fans on the Big Island. Just a few gift shops and a desolate, half-emptysupermarket. A crackling voice on the intercom speaks in Swahili, and the man next to me shakes his head with disdain.
“Delay,” he says, meeting my eyes.
“How much?”
“One hour.”
It could be worse, I think, so I pull out my book.
I’ve been to Africa before—to Egypt and Morocco—but never south of the Sahara and never to such a remote place. During my travels I rarely ever mix with the locals, sealed as I am in my work bubble, always surrounded by colleagues. We end up spending most of our time inside conference rooms, in line at those ghastly buffet lunches, or in our anonymous hotel rooms watching the news. Since I’ve been on this particular detour I’ve been feeling more vulnerable but also more adventurous. I think I’m beginning to get the hang of traveling solo. For instance, whenever I am the only white person within a contained space, I find that reading is the best thing to turn to. It’s actually an act of courtesy, I realized; it allows people to stare and even point at me if they need to—usually it’s the women who find something ridiculous about my clothes and tend to giggle with hands over their mouths. My reading gives them total freedom to examine me without creating unnecessary embarrassment.
“Are you Italian?” a voice asks me in English.
I lift my eyes from the book. Sitting across from me is a man in his early fifties. He’s clearly been looking at the cover of my book. He must have just sat down; I hadn’t noticed him earlier. He wears a white linen shirt, nicely tailored cotton trousers in a shade of ocher, Ray-Bans and soft loafers without socks. This last detail, more than anything, tells me he must be Italian as well. Those are expensive car shoes, the kind Mr. Agnelli made famous. Only Italian men wear loafers without socks with their ankles showing this much beneath the trousers.
“ Si ,” I say, and I shake the hand he’s already holding out.
I am not sure whether to be relieved or disturbed by thischance encounter. He lights a Marlboro and begins to chat amiably in Italian, ignoring my desire to read on.
His name is Carlo Tescari, he’s been living in Tanzania for the last ten years. He’s built a couple of luxury safari camps near Ngorongoro. Before that he lived in Kenya, where he built more luxury camps and sold them for a fortune. Twenty-five years in East Africa, he says, as though it’s a record of some kind. Funny, because he looks as if someone had just lifted him from the Via Roma in Capri and landed him in this tiny airport on the Big Island, on his way to another, smaller island not many people have ever heard of.
“Are you with the NGO?” he asks me.
“No.”
“Just visiting?”
“Yes.”
“There are no hotels, you know. Not even a guest house.”
“I’m staying at a friend’s place.”
“Are you?” He looks at me with a hint of
I look around at my fellow passengers. We are not more than ten and that worries me too. There are large men clad in white kanzus (I’m already using the local language thanks to the Teach Yourself Swahili booklet I bought in Dar es Salaam) and kofia , which I just learned is what their finely stitched cap is called. Judging from their potbellies and thick gold watches they seem rather affluent. A couple of them have small-sized wives sitting next to them, wrapped in the black cape they call buibui . The men talk loudly, mostly among themselves or on old-fashioned Nokias—only a few have smartphones—whereas the wives don’t flinch. They are as still as pillars of salt surrounded by hefty bundles and boxes. I can see baskets brimming with mangoes, cartons containing some household appliances, an electric fan, a kettle, a DVD player. They must’ve been shopping on the mainland; I didn’t see any shopping opportunities for such items as kettles or fans on the Big Island. Just a few gift shops and a desolate, half-emptysupermarket. A crackling voice on the intercom speaks in Swahili, and the man next to me shakes his head with disdain.
“Delay,” he says, meeting my eyes.
“How much?”
“One hour.”
It could be worse, I think, so I pull out my book.
I’ve been to Africa before—to Egypt and Morocco—but never south of the Sahara and never to such a remote place. During my travels I rarely ever mix with the locals, sealed as I am in my work bubble, always surrounded by colleagues. We end up spending most of our time inside conference rooms, in line at those ghastly buffet lunches, or in our anonymous hotel rooms watching the news. Since I’ve been on this particular detour I’ve been feeling more vulnerable but also more adventurous. I think I’m beginning to get the hang of traveling solo. For instance, whenever I am the only white person within a contained space, I find that reading is the best thing to turn to. It’s actually an act of courtesy, I realized; it allows people to stare and even point at me if they need to—usually it’s the women who find something ridiculous about my clothes and tend to giggle with hands over their mouths. My reading gives them total freedom to examine me without creating unnecessary embarrassment.
“Are you Italian?” a voice asks me in English.
I lift my eyes from the book. Sitting across from me is a man in his early fifties. He’s clearly been looking at the cover of my book. He must have just sat down; I hadn’t noticed him earlier. He wears a white linen shirt, nicely tailored cotton trousers in a shade of ocher, Ray-Bans and soft loafers without socks. This last detail, more than anything, tells me he must be Italian as well. Those are expensive car shoes, the kind Mr. Agnelli made famous. Only Italian men wear loafers without socks with their ankles showing this much beneath the trousers.
“ Si ,” I say, and I shake the hand he’s already holding out.
I am not sure whether to be relieved or disturbed by thischance encounter. He lights a Marlboro and begins to chat amiably in Italian, ignoring my desire to read on.
His name is Carlo Tescari, he’s been living in Tanzania for the last ten years. He’s built a couple of luxury safari camps near Ngorongoro. Before that he lived in Kenya, where he built more luxury camps and sold them for a fortune. Twenty-five years in East Africa, he says, as though it’s a record of some kind. Funny, because he looks as if someone had just lifted him from the Via Roma in Capri and landed him in this tiny airport on the Big Island, on his way to another, smaller island not many people have ever heard of.
“Are you with the NGO?” he asks me.
“No.”
“Just visiting?”
“Yes.”
“There are no hotels, you know. Not even a guest house.”
“I’m staying at a friend’s place.”
“Are you?” He looks at me with a hint of
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