Swimming with Dolphins

We came to Zanzibar with a mental to-do list. Monkeys. Dolphins. Beaches. Spices. Stone Town. We sat at breakfast talking with Tim this morning. He's from Hamburg. Worked with Price Waterhouse Cooper. Quit his job. Decided to travel. Ended up volunteering in Rwanda through Accounting for International Development. It connects volunteer accountants with NGOs and community development groups in the developing world. For a few weeks or months, they build local financial capacity. Help them better keep track of the money so they can be responsible stewards of donations and attract more.

We told Tim we want to go to Kizimkaze today to swim with the dolphins. He responds by relaying a story about his encounter with dolphins in some lagoon on an island near Australia. He dismisses the whole experience as cliché. Cliché? I have never done it before. And until Zanzibar, I don't think I ever uttered that combination of words in my life.

We catch a crowded dalla dalla (crowded dalla dalla, now that is cliché!) from Bwejuu to Kitogani. Then we try to hitch the 22 km to Kizimkaze. We try for twenty minutes with no luck until a man in a truck pulls up. Annette sits in front and chats him up. Mara and I are in the bed. Thanks no doubt to Annette's amiability, he drives us all the way to the sand on the beach of Dolphin Village in Kizimkaze. If he drove any further, we would have been covered in salt water, sinking in white sand.

Within a matter of minutes, we have it all arranged—boat, snorkeling gear, and lunch when we return. The boat is called Nungwi and we are the only three. We motor for twenty minutes. Our captain stops to ask a fisherman in Swahili where they last saw the dolphins. We motor more. Another fisherman points the opposite direction. But we continue straight.

“At least its not like the monkeys, where they are just off the road waiting for you,” Annette says. “At least you have to find the dolphins.” We look for another half hour in silence, only interrupted by the steady sound of the motor and the occasional splashing of the prow against a wave. We pass a rocky uninhabited island. The waves splash against its cliffs. It looks like a battleship silhouetted against the blue sky and sea. After another twenty minutes, we turn back. As we speed back we continue to scan the horizon. Every white cap, every shimmer of a wave reflecting in the sun, every boat on the horizon seems to be the dorsal fin of a dolphin. But none are. The water below changes from patches of bright turquoise to dark blue, sometimes mirroring the sky, sometimes revealing whats below. Or at least hinting at it.

I ask where there is good snorkeling, settling myself in for the consolation prize. The captain points ahead with a limp finger. We ride back towards our departure point for another fifteen minutes. “How big do you think that fuel tank is?” Annette asks. “Ten or fifteen liters.” “Fuel is about 2,000 a liter,” she calculates. “If we don't see dolphins, let's offer them 20,000 for the trip.” This is half of what we negotiated up front. But on the optimism of the shore, there was no talk of not seeing dolphins. I nod, annoyed that she initiated this conversation within earshot of the captain. I suppose somehow it will reduce our negotiating power later. As we continue back toward the dolphin village, I ask again, “Where is the good snorkeling?” I want to be sure my hint is clear.

Soon enough, we slow down and start to circle. The water below looks dark. There is some discussion in kiSwahili and pointing between our captain and his mate. We circle some more before he cuts the motor off. I ease my flippers into the water, slide on my mask, stick the breathing tube in my mouth. I swim away from the boat. Below me is mostly grass. I see a piece of coral with a few small fish swimming around it. I come up for air and to see if perhaps I am swimming in the wrong place. “How's the snorkeling?” shouts the captain. “Aeeah,” I respond, rotating my hand, “so so.”

“Come back in the boat,” he responds. I snorkel my way there, hand him my flippers, then my mask. Then climb the three-rung iron ladder into the boat. We speed off to another snorkeling spot. I splash in eagerly. I immediately see more coral and more fish. I pop my head above the water and give a thumbs up back in the direction of the boat. Annette and Mara follow into the water.

Below us, another world emerges. Coral with every possible fish to match. I come across a pizza-sized ray on the bottom before Mara beckons me her direction. There she points out a long pike-like fish swimming vertically. Then Annette calls me to see another fish—black, yellow and white-striped with a huge spine on top. I notice three fish that look like the grass on the bottom—broad, green with a hint of yellow. Then a huge Nemo-like fish swims under a piece of coral. Its markings are orange, turquoise and white. Then beautiful blue and yellow fish. I look up to find small fish swimming almost within reach. But I reach out my hand to find it doesn't reach as far as I expect down here. For a moment, I just float and breathe and look. For an eternity. It is an enchanting world down here. Like the one King Arthur discovered when Merlin turned him into a pike. Magic must be at work here.

I hear a faint interruption. Above the water I find our captain calling us back to the boat. I can't hear what he is saying, but I recognize his motions. I double-check with Mara. She confirms he wants us to swim to the boat. The three of us snorkel reluctantly that direction. I am last. I don't want to leave this world. None of us do.

But as I climb into the boat, I hear talk of dolphins. So we speed that direction. Sure enough, we see several dorsal fins sticking a foot or so our of the water. They are pointier than I expected. Then they disappear for a long time. They emerge again, three dorsal fins at a time. They seem to almost be bobbing up and down from the view. Again, the boat speeds ahead. Then it stops. The captain tells us to get in the water. So we scramble overboard. I look down to find nothing. No coral. No fish. No dolphins. Just an endless blue haze. I come up, look at Mara. She looks as puzzled as I am. “Look down,” the captain shouts. “Keep looking down.” Still nothing.

Then like out of a dream emerge the dolphins. Its more than three. Maybe six or eight or ten. They swim close together, not even a body length apart. They swim maybe ten feet from us. I follow them, looking up occasionally only to ensure I am not about to collide with our boat's motor. I notice one of the dolphins in the back has a flash of white teeth. Looks like an underbite. I swim fast behind them until they disappear back into the blue, slowly fading from sight. We swim back to the boat, clumsily clamor in and speed ahead again.

This time the dolphins are no more than ten meters behind us on a direct course for the boat when we jump into the water. I look down. They come right underneath us. I could touch them if I wanted to. There are fifteen of them in all. Annette counts them. I can't count past eight. I get too excited. I watch as they surface two or three at a time. They swim in a wave pattern. Several go up. Others down. Others cresting. Each following the one in front. They are beautiful. I swim above them, kicking and paddling vigorously. They move effortlessly, with just an occasional flip of their tail. Like a flock of ibises coasting on the wind. I feel the water rushing past my face as I try to keep up. I get a mouthful of water through my snorkel. I swim with them for an hour of a minute. Then they disappear again. I manage to make it back into the boat without taking my flippers off. We do the whole thing again. I bump into Mara this time as the dolphins swim by. Now there is a second and third boat following. On the third go, I say a silent thanks and goodbye to the dolphins. We are all exhausted and satisfied.