This trip stems from a promise that El (my better half) and I had made to ourselves - when her exams were over we would take off for a while, travel the world, have a little fun. The aim was to do a wide variety of stuff – some touristy things, some mountains, see some friends and family. Most of this journal dates from notes I took in the evening - I have allowed hindsight to creep in in some places though...

Sleep badly and wake up early for the first boat to the mainland. This was the super fast boat and as we left port we had the impression that we were in for a smooth ride. This is dispelled about 30 minutes in. Sure this boat doesn't roll but it thuds up and down with each wave in a stomach churning way.

I realise fairly soon that, to use a euphemism, I need to speak to Huey (Hoooeeeyy) on the big white telephone and fairly urgently at that. Unfortunately the toilet is engaged and, as I stagger upstairs onto the deck, I realise that option B, vomiting over the side, is liable to lead to the passengers admiring the view being coated with my meagre breakfast. In the end I settle for the courtesy yellow carrier bag included in the price of the ticket, and I certainly get my money's worth as I spend the next 90 minutes with my head more or less in it.

An Indian man offers me a local remedy, a cardamon seed to chew on. This helps a little but I can safely say that I was a strong candidate for happiest passenger to arrive at Dar that day when we finally drew into port. I have another go at breakfast in a Lebanese bakery and gradually feel human again.

We had hoped to do another Cultural Tourism Programme about 15km south of Dar, in a place called Gezualeol. However, the co-ordinator proves impossible to reach and the person who picks up the phone at the number provided is a little dubious about how safe we would be on the Kigamboni peninsula on the way there. Given this, we opt for a weekend in Bagamoyo, 60 odd km north of Dar.

One taxi to the bus station later and we are attempting to locate the right bus. Any number of people are keen to sell us tickets, but which of them actually have buses? The most commanding chap quotes a price that seems a little dear but not inconceivable in comparism with what we paid to go from Arusha to Dar. We pay and get a ticket, but alarm bells ring as we are ushered towards a slightly bigger version of a minibus - it seems that we have paid more than the standard bit more than the locals. Fortunately for us the Tanzanian sense of justice intervenes - after a 5 minute altercation with the various minibus operators, the villain of the piece is frogmarched back on to the bus to pay us back the excess we paid on top of the ticket price. This he does rather reluctantly, one note at a time, but we get it all back. There seems to be a genuine sense of dismay in the bus at the conman's actions.

Anyway, after that kerfuffle it transpires that we are indeed on a cheap bus, but one that makes its money by not leaving until it is entirely chockful. Forty minutes later it is indeed full by any definition and we set off along the fortunately excellent road to Bagamoyo. Naively, we thought that the bus might stop at a point we would recognise in historic Bagamoyo, the old church for instance. In fact it stops in New Bagamoyo, a nondescript sort of place, not featuring on any map we have. A couple of guides offer their services for a small sum however, and we are soon ensconced in a sort of bungalow resort aimed at Dar based expats.

We have time to wander out onto the beach. It's again overcast - a small fish market is coming to an end and small children are running naked in and out of the waves. Two older children have got a crab on the end of a piece of string and are leading it a dog's life. It's doing it's best to nip them but it's tricky to defend yourself when you can be dangled in the air at will.

We dine on local fish (red snapper) and curry - very tasty but the constant whine of mossies means we don't hang about.

Our wouldbe tourist guide, Tuesday, stands us up, presumably for someone willing to give him more money, so we head out on our own figuring it can't be that complicated. Passing by the Livingstone Protestant church from which lusty singing is coming, it being a Sunday, we get to the Roman Catholic missionaries complex. A sizeable church and some other large buildings give us an idea of the importance Bagamoyo had in the colonial period. We see the tower where Livingstone's body was laid on its final resting place on the continent and then head to the museum.

As we go round this we hear the sounds of an animated discussion between an American lady in her mid-forties and the caretaker of the museum, later joined by some African priests. She is reproaching the museum for portraying the Arabs as the main organisers of the slave trade and the Christian missionaries as saviours of the slaves and vigorous campaigners for the abolition of slavery. Clearly, the museum does present a partial or 'one version' of the truth. On the other hand there is a sign above the entry stating 'catholic museum' so what did she expect?

There doesn't seem to be any prospect of an agreement - one party is arguing from an atheistic, post-religious vision of collective human guilt for slavery, and stating the need for absolute truth on the issue in order to achieve 'healing'. She is faced with the priests arguing that the museum represents how the slave trade was seen and perceived here in this corner of Africa, a record of what happened from the point of view of Bagamoyo.

She is most concerned about the impact on Africans who might see the museum and get a flawed picture of what happened and feels that the museum should also present 'other truths'. As far as the priests are concerned it's mostly tourists who come in (which is sad in itself, in a way) and they note that the museum has been significantly toned down over the last 10 years.

At lunch time we hear again the dulcet tones of the local muezzin. The mosque is close so it is particularly clear, but even so he seems to have the best pitch and tone of those that we have heard so far.

In the afternoon we head out in search of more remmnants of historic Bagamoyo. Unfortunately time and the weather have not been kind to the local architecture. When the exterior of the buildings is no longer repaired, they fall apart very quickly. Although the old caravanserai, final staging post for the slaves before being shipped on dhows to Zanzibar, is being restored, most of the rest is within a few years of irreparable ruin.

On one hand it's understandable that Tanzanians feel little desire to maintain arab tea houses, German colonial administration headquarters and the like, which represent the history of the coloniser more than the colonised. On the other, if these locations were put into a state where they could be visited, they could represent a good source of income as well as bringing more tourists into the area. Tricky.

On the beach itself dhows and outrigger canoes are being repaired, nets and sails are being mended and fish are being sold. At the resort, expat life is in progress. A group of bikers have come out from town and are refreshing themselves, people are reading various foreign newspapers or chatting about business. German missionaries complete with large blond families say grace before tucking into lunch.

We're killing time now, keen to move on and see a different country. We cram ourselves back into a Dalla-Dalla which sets off after just 5 minutes and makes record time to Dar. The not-so-friendly touts are still very much present but we just laugh at them when they try to get us to take a taxi at five times the going rate.

A quick whip round Dar for some last things to do – I swop From Larkrise to Candleford, White Teeth and an African detective novel with a roadside bookseller for an Ed McBain and DH Lawrence's Travels in Italy.

When we get back to the hotel the electricity is off, and this section of my journal is being written in near darkness. El has given the hotel the nickname The Shining due to its long corridors, brooding carpet and emptiness, but tonight The Starlight hotel (its real name) seems more appropriate given that this is the only illumination available. After some chess by torchlight, we find out that some of the rooms have light so we change room in time for the electricity supply of the entire hotel to go down.

We take this as a cue to go and get some dinner. At the local restaurant we share a table with a Dutch gay couple. They're rather quiet as they've just come off the Zanzibar boat. A woman next to them was being sick the whole time and to top it all they've ordered the pasta with aubergines, not an easy dish to swallow even when you're feeling good, as El can testify from a previous visit to the restuarant. They are also somewhat concerned about their onward travel plans. They had made a reservation months in advance for Thursday's train to Mwanza to see a friend for the last week of their holiday. However, when they arrived the day before the train was due to leave to pick up their ticket, no trace of their reservation. After much pleading, checking of records and being told this is the Tanzanian way, they were asked to come back the next day. I imagine that a place will have been found somewhere for them.

The day starts with a last Tanzanian task – find some traditional Masai singing on cassette. The best we can do is an album by Mr Ebbo – he's dressed as a warrior on the front so it seems promising, but in fact it turns out he's the Masai answer to Will Smith, a little bit of rap, a little bit of R 'n' B but strictly no traditional throat vibrating.

Before going to the airport El confronts an ethical dilemna. It is illegal to take coral or shells out of Tanzania. However, naughty girl that she is, she has picked up a good dozen shells on the beach at Bagamoyo. Should she conceal them about her person, or leave them in the hotel room, where, lets face it, a hermit crab is unlikely make much use of them? She opts for the compromise solution of taking a few and leaving the rest guiltily. In the end her fears about getting caught are somewhat assuaged by the fact that the airport souvenir shop has some enormous shells for sale right under the nose of customs...

On the way to the airport we see the best collection yet of that Tanzanian phenomenon, traffic light vendors. Without leaving the taxi on the way to the airport, we could have bought soap, peanuts, chewing gum, a washing up bowl, an L sticker, a steering wheel, a TV aerial, a picture of Mary and child and a text from the Koran (from the same vendor, which was even-handed of him), a nodding dog, a child's plastic toy, or a deep shag car seat cover. Clothes, bedspreads, brooms all available as well as the more classical option of a newspaper.

As many as 20-25 young men could be found at popular spots, testimony to Tanzania's underemployment problem and the total absence of a benefits system. Better to try your luck selling a TV aerial to people driving to the airport than starve at home.

Dar international airport is not yet set up to get the maximum cash out of tourists. No foreign newspapers sadly and, if you turn up early to check in, you are turned away sternly. Security appears reasonable, fortunately, given the attacks on Mombasa airport a few months ago.

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