The Plan Was Optimistic, Which Should Have Been Our First Warning
Five of us converged on Dar es Salaam on a Thursday afternoon in the kind of humidity that makes you reconsider life choices. There was Delphine, who'd done her research with the fervour of someone planning a military operation. Roo, who preferred to wing it and had already somehow made friends with three Tanzanians at the airport. Ngaio, our fitness obsessive, who'd been training for Kilimanjaro by running stadium steps like a person possessed. Finn, chronically late, perpetually charming. And me, Maz, which is to say: present, slightly anxious, holding a notebook.
We'd never met before this trip. Global Hobo's editorial team had decided that sending five solo travel writers on a group adventure would make for either transcendent storytelling or a spectacular implosion. Frankly, we were all hoping for the latter—better copy.
The first thing that could have gone wrong did: Roo's luggage didn't. We watched it sail past on the baggage carousel, apparently destined for Mozambique. She laughed, the kind of laugh that suggested this wasn't her first rodeo with aviation chaos, and we knew immediately she'd be fine.
Zanzibar Was Supposed to Be the Gentle Warm-up
We'd booked a Zanzibar Airport Transfers Pickup and Drop off/departure Zanzibar Airport Transfers Pickup and Drop off/departure for the segment from airport to our accommodation on the island's north coast. The driver, Hassan, was waiting with a sign bearing Delphine's name in letters so large they could've been read from orbit. He'd somehow managed to squeeze all our gear into an air-conditioned minibus that smelled faintly of air freshener and optimism.
Stone Town announced itself before we could see it: a wall of narrow streets, salt-stained buildings, and the kind of authentic chaos that makes Instagram travel accounts weep with envy. We gave ourselves two days there. Finn, predictably, insisted we hire a proper guide rather than stumbling about like typical tourists, and for once his romantic notion of travel proved prescient.
Finn booked us onto the Stone Town Hidden Gems: Historical Walking Tour with Local Guide this tour. Our guide, Amara, moved through the labyrinth with the ease of someone who'd walked it ten thousand times, which she had. She knew which doorways led to hidden courtyards, which spice merchants' families had been trading in the same spot for four generations, which politician's nephew had accidentally been married to two women in the same building for three years before anyone noticed.
The UNESCO spiel exists somewhere, sure—the Arab dhows, the Persian influence, the architectural layers of conquest and commerce. Amara skipped past all that to the real story: the woman in the coral-pink house who'd spent sixty years there and could remember when tourists didn't exist. The young entrepreneur selling coconut juice who'd taught himself English from bootleg DVDs. The politics of who got to sell where, and why some families owned entire streets.
Finn took notes. I took notes. Delphine took photos. Roo tried coconut juice and spent ten minutes insisting it was the best liquid she'd ever consumed, which set the tone for her relationship with Tanzanian food for the rest of the trip.
Northern Tanzania Was Where the Actual Journey Began
We flew to Arusha on a propeller plane that made its feelings about gravity very clear. Once there, we split into two groups—a decision that seemed reasonable at the time and almost ended in three separate arguments about hiking ability and wildlife enthusiasm.
Delphine, being Delphine, had already committed to the 7 Days Tanganyika Wilderness Safari 7 Days Tanganyika Wilderness Safari. She'd wanted the sweep of it all—Serengeti, Ngorongoro Crater, Tarangire, Lake Natron—and she wasn't interested in roughing it so heavily that she'd spend the whole time fantasising about showers. So Delphine got her private 4×4, her dedicated guide named Paschal, and her lodges with hot water. She documented it all with the grim determination of someone who'd paid for a story and would extract one if it killed her.
The rest of us had booked the 7-Day Private midrange Tour in Arusha with Airport Pickup 7-Day Private midrange Tour in Arusha with Airport Pickup, which gave us the same heavy hitters—Ngorongoro, Serengeti, Tarangire, Lake Manyara—but with a different flavour entirely. Our guide, Joseph, was considerably more relaxed than Paschal, in the way that someone is relaxed when they've given up on schedule and embraced whatever happens. This meant we'd stop for things. Actual village encounters. Long conversations with people who weren't professionally employed to be charming to tourists.
Ngaio, meanwhile, had already left us for higher altitudes.
Kilimanjaro Happened While We Were Looking the Other Way
Ngaio had booked the 8 Days Kilimanjaro Hike via Lemosho Route 8 Days Kilimanjaro Hike via Lemosho Route separately, which meant she'd started her ascent whilst the rest of us were still grappling with altitude above four thousand metres. The Lemosho Route is supposedly the quiet one—fewer boots, more wildlife, a wider loop around the peak through rainforest that apparently has leopards in it, though Ngaio was sensible enough not to discuss this beforehand.
We got sporadic updates. Day two: knees are annoyed. Day four: crossed above the clouds, felt like god. Day six: the porters know all the best swear words in seven languages. Day seven: Uhuru Peak at sunrise, cried like I'd broken, didn't even care.
When she rejoined us in Arusha looking simultaneously destroyed and transcendent, covered in dust that might have been permanent, we barely recognised her.
What Happened Next Was Actually Unplanned
Delphine's group came back with the photos—endless photographs of the Serengeti at golden hour, the Ngorongoro Crater looking like someone had taken a bite out of the earth itself, Lake Natron in that unreal turquoise that makes you question your camera's honesty.
Our group came back with stories that didn't photograph. Roo had somehow become involved in a argument about football that lasted forty minutes. Finn had befriended a group of Maasai kids who'd taught him approximately six words of their language, all of which he used constantly and almost certainly incorrectly. Joseph had introduced us to his cousin who made the best mandazi in Ngorongoro, and we'd spent an evening learning that what we thought was a simple pastry was actually a philosophy.
By the time Ngaio came down from the mountain, we'd become the kind of group that finishes each other's sentences—not because we were particularly close, but because we'd already told the same stories to each other fourteen times.
The Unraveling Was Gentle
Our last night, we sat somewhere that probably charged too much for mediocre pizza and not enough for what it actually offered: quiet, a view, and the kind of exhaustion that comes from doing something properly. Delphine talked about how differently she travelled now versus five years ago. Roo confessed she'd already booked another African trip and wanted to know if any of us wanted in. Finn waxed poetic about something Joseph had said about time. Ngaio's knees made sounds when she walked.
I didn't take notes. Seemed wrong.
Tanzania hadn't changed us—that's not how travel actually works, despite what we writers like to pretend. But it had given us something: the particular friendship that comes from shared struggle, shared wonder, shared bad hotels and brilliant guides and moments where the world felt exactly as large as it actually is.
