"On the road again; I just can't wait to get on the road again"

Two days earlier, we were warned of the driving schedule and events that awaited us. Their dire words resembled an omen. We didn’t believe them. As Westerners used to a fast-paced society, we figured they exaggerated. After all, what ferry terminal packs its passengers in like cows loaded on a trailer headed to slaughter?

The adventure begins before dawn with a day-long drive across rural Tanzania. Despite a race against time to reach the destination by dark, the big yellow truck carrying sixteen tourists never moves faster than fifty kilometers per hour on unpaved dirt roads. We are one of two vehicles on this tour. So, we nap, snack, sing along to music playing through the truck’s speakers and I take a particular liking to two Australian rock/rap bands. We share inside jokes, four of us attempt to play German Speed Uno, but find it challenging as the truck often rocks like a boat on rough seas. Oftentimes, we watch the countryside pass by. It’s breathtaking.

Mountains, sprinkled by white puffy clouds, stand in the distance. Crops resembling baby palm trees are planted in rows. We pass towns with more shanties than brick buildings, men sitting proudly on their motorcycles, and women selling their wares on blankets with makeshift awnings protecting them from the sun.

Countryside turns to a bustling city with high-rise buildings, traffic, and people on the move. We learn its Africa’s sixth largest city with a population of six-million people.

As night falls, we arrive at our destination, a campground on the outskirts of Dar es Salaam. It’s an enigma of sorts. Club music blasts from storefronts as our truck pulls through the entrance of our one-night residence. Our large vehicle maneuvers through a canopy of branches and eventually comes to a stop as we race to roll up windows. When we unload our camping necessities, the climate is a stark change from the previous days. No longer is it mild and pleasant, but now is too humid for this New Englander. As I stand and look around, I sweat as if I had worked out for an hour. I’m drenched and can’t wipe away the sweat before new beads trickle down my face.

We set up our site, then tour the area around us. Our campground, if it can even be called that, sits behind an open-air restaurant and bar, equipped with pool tables and televisions. The building looks out onto white sand beaches and the Indian Ocean. Beside it, is a swimming pool with lounge chairs, and a picnic table. Off to the side are outside showers, toilets, and sinks.

After a hot meal with good company, one by one we mosey back to our accommodations. Without anything circulating the muggy air, there’s no relief until the wee hours, and then it’s only temporary. The call to morning prayers blasts through the city’s speakers at day break.

It’s only the first part of our adventure.

When we wake, the scene is chaotic. Breakfast is served and guides direct us like herding cats. They ask us to leave our camping gear. We’ll live largely in hotels for our next stop. They also remind half of us to not forget anything as we won’t see these trucks again. For us, Zanzibar is our final destination.

I wander aimlessly, ready to leave. I sweat profusely, begging for rain or a quick cold shower knowing there’s no time for that request. The weather gods hear my plea and for mere minutes rain pounds the ground below. We run, carrying our luggage and jugs of water, to the waiting tuk-tuks. Soon, the auto rickshaws pull out, in single file, from the campground and race to the ferry terminal. The damp air blows in our faces. Some worry about the luggage falling out of the vehicles as they zip and zoom through traffic. We laugh, imagining how we must look to passers-by. It’s a race, a scene from a movie, or maybe an old-school episode of Punk’d. The tuk-tuks drop us off at a random parking lot and we’re instructed to walk as a group and not to fall behind. It seems to be an easy enough task, except the guide leading the group is a speed walker, maybe a marathon runner. We try to stay on his heels, but between our baggage and the no-nonsense locals who are in an equal hurry to reach their destination, it proves challenging and I am breathless.

We reach our meeting point. It’s a moment of truth. We must all get on the first ferry before we can think about reaching the second. This is a commuter boat that holds a ton of passengers and vehicles, but space is limited. Once the gates open, it’s a free-for-all.

Again, we think the explanation is exaggerated. We’re from the Western World. We’ve battled New York City subways or the like. We know busy. We know tight. We know squeezed. We got this.

Actually, we don’t.

We do not know any of it.

We got nothing.

We’re clueless.

The gates open and people shove their way through the space like concert attendees rushing a stage. Bags, limbs, and people are pushed and jostled. Some are elbowed, rammed, and smushed. We move as one, desperate to be in the center of the group, scared to be on the perimeter.

We make it onto the two-story hunk of metal that holds eight-hundred passengers and break apart for damp air, trying to stay with our tour group or at least with familiar faces.

On the other side, we’re warned pictures of the transportation are not allowed and if a tourist has taken some, delete them before we reach security. The warning sounds like a threat and we’re all eager to comply.

We’re only at the halfway point of our journey. Several buses meet us to take us to the second ferry. This time, it’s like an airport. Standing in line, I, in Swahili, greet a man standing next to me. He wears traditional Masai tribal garb. Midway through our limited conversation, he asks if I’m fluent. I can’t help but laugh and answer in English, “My Swahili is about to run out.” He laughs with me.

Once inside, the scene is a hectic, but nothing like before. I feel better prepared. Passports are checked. Baggage is scanned. New visas are filled out. Questions, mainly to Americans, are asked. As we stand in the designated and crowded “waiting area” -- an outdoor covered and sequestered space with lounge chairs and snack bars, I’m promised the boarding won’t be like last time. The bedlam is over.

I’m hesitant to believe my guide.

When we’re permitted to board the second ferry, we’re encouraged to find and sit in seats as quickly as possible. I feel pressure mount.

We step on the ferry and I gawk at the accommodations in disbelief. Black leather seats, an American-like air conditioning system blasting cold manufactured air on full blast, and a flat screen at the front of the ship. The display reads, “Karibu Kwenye Bodi,” meaning “Welcome on Board.”

Taking a seat beside my comrades, I nestle into a chair, pull out a sweatshirt, and release a long-held breath. The captain welcomes us in English and Swahili. A Muslim prayer is played over the sound system and English lyrics are displayed on the flat screen. As it finishes, I close my eyes and drift off to much need and sound sleep.