Tanzania certainly captures my imagination in more ways than Kenya can ever hope to do.
I could write paragraphs on why Tanzania captures my imagination. But if there is one thing about Tanzania that touched my soul it was the trees of Tanzania. Not to mention the mythical port of Zanzibar that Sinbad the Sailor made legendary with his cry of : The spices of Zanzibar.
Never in any other place have I seen such stunning trees. I do not mean flamboyant, visually loud trees. I mean understated, old solid trees that reek of character. Trees that look liked wizened old men you want around a bonfire on a starlit desert night. Men who tell you stories of a time gone by. Using understated and often abstracted words that will find their mark in those receptive to the beauty of life.
I realize that it is not the beauty of the trees in itself as much as the stunning visual juxtaposition of trees and seas. I have seen stunning sealines. I have seen soulful trees. Never ever have I seen breathtaking seascapes adorned by trees that have no right to be there. I thought seascapes were complete with the odd palm tree. How limiting.
There was this old tree with its crown spread regally all around it. Not one leaf on it. Solid trunk which would have made it a respectable tree anywhere in the world. It was where it was positioned that made it truly special. I had just turned a corner and the seaside road was beginning to go into its lazy turn and there, out of nowhere was this tree.
Silhouetted against the early morning sun, a dark image of its real beauty, and shimmering against a backdrop of languid backwaters. The stark barrenness of the tree was obvious. As was the lyrical beauty of the backwater it highlighted. I have heard of many definitions for the word : Languid. I will never again look for another definition.
This early morning, as I turned the corner and saw the sea I knew languid in its truest sense of the word. Languid is silken magic. Languid is the sheet of ruffled silk that passes for the Indian ocean in the mystical land of Tanzania. Languid is seeing little boats glide past, in slow motion as it were, against an early morning sun that reinforced the natural stark beauty of trees and beaches.
The juxtaposition of these trees , these wizened old men, with lazy colonial houses on boulevards
Would be a visual treat in itself. Just when you thought that you had seen too much beauty to handle, the rising sun plays its tricks on you. I wonder how many have had the time or the visual patience to see what the rising sun can do to an old tree.
It is an act of passion. The manner in which the sun bathes the old tree and the tree gratefully acknowledges the warmth provided to it by its cosmic soul mate. The waves of golden warmth that wash over the dark brown of the tree do both the sun and the tree proud.
It is fascinating how few images can leave with one a lasting redefinition of what beauty is. How hard it is to articulate the inner pleasure of when one has seen beauty. Beauty is as much what is as what it does. It is the special ability to reach inside the inner depths of our sub conscious that defines beauty.
The beauty of a face, the beauty of a tree, the beauty of the odd pure smile are but different manifestations of the same ability of an external phenomenon to touch us so deeply that for one excruciating second the two are connected in an entwining dance of oneness.
In the lazy boulevards and in the sand swept beaches of Tanzania the presence of these stunning trees refined my perception of what beauty is and what it does. The simplicity that emerges after complex resolution of multiple directions is the simplicity of clarity. It is the simplicity of certainty and the elegance of naturalness.
Tanzania draws me in ways I cannot explain. I will be back here. To spend time on the isolated beaches of Zanzibar. To recline on the deck chairs and watch the sun sink into the ocean. To feel the smell of the ocean mingle with the odors of the city and pleasure and tingle me in ways no person can. To walk under a fullmoon night towards the alluring mines of tanzanite, where the heat of the earth converts diamonds into a rippling ocean blue.
Coming back to Zanzibar is a silent promise I make to myself. Even as I write this I hear the waves lapping lazily against my log cabin. Maybe with a person who will be as touched by the pristine beauty of the land as I was. Failing which, I shall come here by myself and make the accidental connection with a local whose lack of self awareness will make my experience all that richer.
I could write paragraphs on why Tanzania captures my imagination. But if there is one thing about Tanzania that touched my soul it was the trees of Tanzania. Not to mention the mythical port of Zanzibar that Sinbad the Sailor made legendary with his cry of : The spices of Zanzibar.
Never in any other place have I seen such stunning trees. I do not mean flamboyant, visually loud trees. I mean understated, old solid trees that reek of character. Trees that look liked wizened old men you want around a bonfire on a starlit desert night. Men who tell you stories of a time gone by. Using understated and often abstracted words that will find their mark in those receptive to the beauty of life.
I realize that it is not the beauty of the trees in itself as much as the stunning visual juxtaposition of trees and seas. I have seen stunning sealines. I have seen soulful trees. Never ever have I seen breathtaking seascapes adorned by trees that have no right to be there. I thought seascapes were complete with the odd palm tree. How limiting.
There was this old tree with its crown spread regally all around it. Not one leaf on it. Solid trunk which would have made it a respectable tree anywhere in the world. It was where it was positioned that made it truly special. I had just turned a corner and the seaside road was beginning to go into its lazy turn and there, out of nowhere was this tree.
Silhouetted against the early morning sun, a dark image of its real beauty, and shimmering against a backdrop of languid backwaters. The stark barrenness of the tree was obvious. As was the lyrical beauty of the backwater it highlighted. I have heard of many definitions for the word : Languid. I will never again look for another definition.
This early morning, as I turned the corner and saw the sea I knew languid in its truest sense of the word. Languid is silken magic. Languid is the sheet of ruffled silk that passes for the Indian ocean in the mystical land of Tanzania. Languid is seeing little boats glide past, in slow motion as it were, against an early morning sun that reinforced the natural stark beauty of trees and beaches.
The juxtaposition of these trees , these wizened old men, with lazy colonial houses on boulevards
Would be a visual treat in itself. Just when you thought that you had seen too much beauty to handle, the rising sun plays its tricks on you. I wonder how many have had the time or the visual patience to see what the rising sun can do to an old tree.
It is an act of passion. The manner in which the sun bathes the old tree and the tree gratefully acknowledges the warmth provided to it by its cosmic soul mate. The waves of golden warmth that wash over the dark brown of the tree do both the sun and the tree proud.
It is fascinating how few images can leave with one a lasting redefinition of what beauty is. How hard it is to articulate the inner pleasure of when one has seen beauty. Beauty is as much what is as what it does. It is the special ability to reach inside the inner depths of our sub conscious that defines beauty.
The beauty of a face, the beauty of a tree, the beauty of the odd pure smile are but different manifestations of the same ability of an external phenomenon to touch us so deeply that for one excruciating second the two are connected in an entwining dance of oneness.
In the lazy boulevards and in the sand swept beaches of Tanzania the presence of these stunning trees refined my perception of what beauty is and what it does. The simplicity that emerges after complex resolution of multiple directions is the simplicity of clarity. It is the simplicity of certainty and the elegance of naturalness.
Tanzania draws me in ways I cannot explain. I will be back here. To spend time on the isolated beaches of Zanzibar. To recline on the deck chairs and watch the sun sink into the ocean. To feel the smell of the ocean mingle with the odors of the city and pleasure and tingle me in ways no person can. To walk under a fullmoon night towards the alluring mines of tanzanite, where the heat of the earth converts diamonds into a rippling ocean blue.
Coming back to Zanzibar is a silent promise I make to myself. Even as I write this I hear the waves lapping lazily against my log cabin. Maybe with a person who will be as touched by the pristine beauty of the land as I was. Failing which, I shall come here by myself and make the accidental connection with a local whose lack of self awareness will make my experience all that richer.
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