AU REVOIR ZANZIBOIR

Stone Town, Zanzibar. Click to enlarge

IN JULIA'S WORDS

12 July

An unexpected pleasure in Zanzibar Stone Town was bumping into the National (Zanzibari, not Tanzanian – long-standing and contentious relationship that it is) Library.

Stone Town to me is like being dropped in to an elaborate labyrinth, blind-folded, spun whirling dervishly around, and then being asked to find my way. What I understand to be my innate compass urges me to turn left to where I want to go - which turns out to be NOT the way to go.
Even trying to secure landmarks to find my way fails me. I note the bit of shopfront wall with the boldly spraypainted words in dark blue JAWS on a central wall at where five narrow paths meet. I’ve seen this place plenty times.
I know that it’s not far from the Haven guesthouse where we’re staying, but blow me down with an unprecedented typhoon in Benoni if I can at all figure which one of the medieval lanes leading off from this slight intersection I should take.

Dunno where I am but I like it

But I’m generally very poor anyway at north and south, left and right, so I’m quite used to struggling to find my way. Rehana, though, has an inner longa-lati-directional compass forever fixed in her forehead and NEVER loses her way - except just this once, in said Zanzibari stone wonderness. And I feel ever better about my Kafkaesque non-comprend of Stone Town labyrinth because of it.

Probably, then, it’s better that I wasn’t looking for the library, because I would never have found it. But as it happened, walking along a road that promised the State building (just a major white-washed wall could we see walking past) and Victoria’s gardens (nice frangipani type trees but overgrown beneath so no hope of lying down with a book), and just as we reached an intersection at the end of both – there was the university library. 
A handsome enough building, a carved Zanzibari wooden door at the entrance. On the stoep was shelves for bag storage. They allowed us to use the library, we just had to sign in. The two assistants were watching a Bollywood movie on a laptop, the office probably belonged to the chief librarian, a stout woman who was reclining on a couch on the first day of Ramadaan. 
There were air conditioners covered in cobwebs on the walls and the spiders had made homes on the ceiling fans as well. The ceiling was water stained. There were three other users, two young men conferring by pointing on each other’s laptop screens and a young woman transcribing notes on her laptop.

Deeply depressing were the number and agedness of the books that peppered the few DIY iron shelves – especially for a library that proclaims itself as that representing the nation.
But I didn’t look at much more before I spotted the Azania Journal, maybe 40 thick editions, and pulled out the 1966 edition. Almost immediately my eye fell upon an article by one Neville Chittick, that very researcher who had done so much archeological/historical prodding on Kilwa Kisiwani.

Chittick’s article was just called “Kilwa”, and put out his three major points:

·       The western tip of the island had a powerful civilisation prior to the Arab invasions

·       The first batch of Oman arabs had first berthed in southern Somalia for a good few centuries, and so had assimilated much of Africa before they set sail and arrived at Kilwa – probably 12^th CE

·       The second batch of Oman Arabs – 16^th century? – pissed far more emphatically on their new tree, and the change is far more remarked in the archaeological debris. Like fancier lamps and portable braais.

About the Portuguese adventures/plunders around here, Chittick said little. Or perhaps I scanned over it.

Besides such an unexpected gem on the subject of the history of these parts were many others: about Tippu Tip (that empire-building slave trader) who wangled and plundered as far inland as Malawi and Zambia and Zimbabwe; and a cache of over 3 000 buried ancient coins – most connected with Kilwa Kisiwani - in Oroa, discovered under a mere foot of soil in the 1940s by a boy sent to dig up roots between two  Baobab trees.
Whose harried wealth it was will probably never be dug up, but the theory was that they were buried there in the early 1500s when the Portuguese relationship with the locals had suddenly soured and a Portuguese ship blockaded the island, pirating and plundering the local’s vessels.

But aah … how splendid to be slopping my way again in the white and the heat of Stone Town, 16 years on from my first and only visit. Nick, Sue and Ondie, my fellow travellers back then: you’re much in my thoughts.

IN REHANA'S WORDS

Friday 12 July

Soon after I met Julia, around 16 years ago, she went to Zanzibar with friends and told me that I would love it. She was absolutely right. From her descriptions, I thought it would be a great place to bring my mother, and I wish I had. My family would feel as at home here as I do. It is one big mixed masala of an island.

But before I start oohing and aahing, a bit of reflection about being on the road for three months. I knew before I left that this journey was an opportunity to be more selfish than I usually am. I envisaged waking up every morning and asking, “what do I want to do today?” and then, taking only Julia’s needs into account, doing only that. It’s been great taking time out – except when I’m stricken with huge missingness for the people I love.

Away from home, in places where communication is difficult, cut off from access to media, I’ve started feeling a little too self-involved. The coup in Egypt and the war in Sudan is interesting insofar as it affects my travel plans. Cabinet reshuffle in South Africa? Tell someone who cares. Madiba’s health and horrible family is a huge concern though, Julia gets tearful when people ask us how he’s doing.

Most of my communication – this blog, phone calls, sms’s and emails, are all about “me me me”. I have nothing else to talk about. I am desperate for news from home and there’s nothing nicer than a long email from my parents filled with details of their busy lives and lovely anecdotes about everyone else. 

This is exactly what I planned – a hedonistic journey for one year. In all of the countries we visit, I haven’t come to contribute or get involved. I’ve come in search of pleasure. I do bring enormous interest and a few dollars to hand over every time the Tanzanian Parks Board demands some from me. I need to guard against rating every destination by whether its campsites and guesthouses meets my needs. But it's hard to live without water, she whines. Everywhere we go people look so dusty. Do we also look like that?

My biggest regret so far is that rushing from place to place gives us scant opportunity to meet locals and form short-lived friendships. We skitter across the lives of the people we encounter. 
Most of the locals we meet are staff at tourist facilities and the guides, boatmen and drivers we employ for a few hours. Our fellow tourists are our only other company. This is a consequence of the choice to visit 10 (11?12? who knows?) countries in one year. Not complaining, just observing.

Zanzibar’s a bit of a cure for homesickness because so much of it is familiar – the mix of the masala on the skin, in the language and in the food. The Ramadaan fervour is a lot more pronounced than in South Africa. 
It’s midnight and a group of men are beating tablas and tambourines in the alley outside our hotel and singing Allah and Mohammed’s praises. It’s beautiful but very loud.

In the visitor’s guide to Zanzibar handed out at their posh tourism bureau office at the port, there’s an entry about “Eid-al-Fitry”. It says “it take place annual after thirsty the holy month of Ramadhan”.

There are notices plastered on every building warning mzungu that it’s Ramadaan and that they are to dress modestly (we all know this is only directed at the women) and they are not eat or drink anything in public. 
Why is this necessary? Will the sight of a kufaar drinking water tempt a good Muslim to break his fast?

When we went down to the beach last night to watch the locals excitedly spotting the fingernail of the new moon soon after the blood-red sunset, we came across a blonde who had never heard of Ramadaan.
A group of teenagers had submerged a tyre into the sand on the thin strip of beach and showed off their tumbling skills. They launched themselves off the tyre into double and triple somersaults, to the enthusiastic cheering of the boys waiting their turn. The few times their tricks didn't quite work out they found soft landings on the sand.

The sunset on the eve of Ramadan

Most of the mzungus on the streets today had not gotten the message. Thighs hung out of short shorts and skirts and many shoulders were draped in spaghetti straps. 
Most of the eating establishments were closed at lunchtime.  Jules and I went to the market in search of modest clothing and were forced to buy menswear – for women there were mostly abayas and burqas on offer.

The winter and summer collection

I so wish I could take photos of the beautiful Muslim women on Zanzibar whose pitch black kohl-lined eyes under dark lids peer out from their black burqas. But I can’t. Take it from me, they are gorgeous without exception.

Our hotel, The Haven, is owned by Ali, a Zanzibari. It is a converted house. Our bedroom has a double door and the ceiling rests on mangrove poles. The bathrooms (one with a HOT shower, the water isn’t SALTY but the soap and shampoo still won’t lather) are clearly recent add-ons. Its great to sit on the narrow stoep outside like the locals do and hold conversations with the neighbours.

It is within walking distance of all the sights - the sultan's palace, the fort, the waterfront, the beach, the ancient public baths that the sultan built, the cathedral and lots lots more. Freddy Mercury's old home in Stone Town was a normal, middle class yellow block of flats.

Farrokh Busara, aka Freddy, could have stood right here!

The food in Zanzibar has surpassed my high expectations. Jules and I had lunch at a local restaurant, Lukmaan, on our first day. The food was served buffet-style and we chose oyster curry in coconut and tamarind sauce, spinach in coconut sauce and plantain curry in coconut sauce.
Our next big meal was at an Indian restaurant, Silk Route, which was designed the way I had envisaged our wedding – red, yellow and orange silk draped the entire ceiling. The waitresses all wore salwar kameezes and served the food with graceful twists of their wrists.

Tonight, the first night of Ramadaan, we started at a Goan vegetarian restaurant where I only had a samoosa starter. The rest of my meal I ate on the street.

The public feast was a sight to behold and a good reason to spend the next 28 days here. On the waterfront, in a park donated by the Aga Khan, vendors set up tables heaped with lobster, huge crab claws, octopus, hundreds of skewers of meat and fish, falafel, fruit and a weird thing called a Zanzibar pizza which is banana, nutella and raw egg wrapped in pastry and fried in oil. 
Sugar cane juice vendors turned the wheels of their huge crushers and added freshly-squeezed lemon and fresh ginger to their icy concoctions. All the juices in Zanzibar are so pulpy they can almost be chewed. And there’s ice cream, and milkshakes!

My last meal for the night was at 11pm at a restaurant across from our hotel, Amir, the owner, has a charcoal brazier and cooks skewers of gorgeously marinaded chicken and beef which have to be drenched in his delicious mango chilli sauce. Most of the food we’ve eaten so far has been served with mango, paw-paw or avocado relish. Heaven!

The Haven to the left, Amir's establishment on the right

ZANGLISH, EYELAND STILE

IN JULIA'S WORDS

16 July

Luckily Nungwi on the island's northern tip was the last of our destinations on Zanzibar. Paje on the south eastern coast where we were previously stayed had its points,  but did not match tourist’s pleasureville in the north. Better, ne, to end on a soaring soprana’s high note, not a whimper. 
Our accommodation at Baraka’s Beach resort in Nungwi was just a tweak more expensive (US$45 per night) but had plusses like brick and mortar (rather than something like a very big upside-down woven basket for a room in Paje) and a shower en suite that had HOT, ALMOST FRESH water (vs shared ablutions in Paje a walk away with a dribble of cold brack water). 
The skinny old man with orange front teeth, our “captain” in Paje, punted us out oldmanfully in his sail-less dugout for a fairly fine snorkel on a fairly fine reef; whereas we were loaded aboard a double decker super-dhow with 15 other mzungus to a FABULOUS reef and teaming fishies – for less dosh. Sounding like a picky tourist brat? I am.

The brat and her captain for the day on a Nungwe reef

Nungwi’s far more built up, but not too vulgarly, tucking the tourists away quite discretely in the many resorts. 
Mzungus lie down in clumps like beached maggots with slight slips of colour where their very slight cozzies cover, whilst Masai men, far from their mainland origins, are the tourist touts who stalk the white sands in their tartan red cotton cloths. 

Brat gets a tattoo

One national Zanzibari practice would cause picky proofreaders to wince and incur lasting brain ache. It’s the charming disregard for general English sentence structure, and for spelling in particular, which mashes the language in a most fascinating way. 

In Nungwi, menus were worth a thorough reading less for what was on offer than for how it was said. Friend eggs were everywhere, children could order half potions, you could get a barberqued chic, and drink yourself a sprint gin. 
One souvenir shop assured you “we dial in wood”.  Interestingly, not even the Zanzabari officialdom cares a hoot for consistency. Their grand official signs and letterheads – all in English, curiously, not Swahili – variously call themselves “Revolution Government of Zanzibar” and “Revolutionary Government of Zanzibar”. Three wee letters, which for me, imply quite a radical difference.

Oh, and with Ramadaan/Ramadan/Ramadhan afoot in these parts, I’m glad that a) I have earplugs (wo these loudspeakers, many of them, can goooooooooo oooooooooooooon – often sounding like the singer’s got bad tummy ache) and b) that I’m reading “The Portable Athiest: Essential Readings for the Nonbeliever”, edited by Christopher Hitchens. Just really helps, both of them.

Now back in Mikadi Beach, we've packed up our car and are ready to get the short ride on the ferry to Dar in order to avoid the infernal chaos. Then, pole pole (said polay polay, meaning slowly slowly) we’ll slide ourselves northwards towards Arusha and Kilimanjaro.

IN REHANA'S WORDS

Wednesday, 17 July

Stone Town almost trapped us in its winding, narrow alleyways filled with fascinating people, but the beach beckoned and we vowed to return to it for another day and a night before we left the island. But the beach seduced us also and we never returned to the Ramadaan feast in Stone Town. 
It was a hard decision to make, but our consolation is that Zanzibar is not that far from South Africa and easy to reach. We will come back again.

First beach was at Paje. Our taxi driver Ame, who had taken us to the The Haven when we arrived in Stone Town, insisted that he would also find cheap accommodation in Paje. Our spot, Teddys Original Beach Camp, was okay but Mike and Carol’s beach banda (our straw basket, Jules called it) had a sand floor! The water in the shower was a trickle on the first day and offered nothing on the second. Dunno what I would have done in Tanzania without wet wipes. I’m on my third packet already.

We should have taken more notice of the coconut trees when we arrived in Paje. But we were mesmerised by the water – a fat turquoise stripe with a dark blue reef in the distance. We failed to notice the hundreds of kite surfers on the fat turquoise stripe. We put on our cossies and rushed onto the wind-blasted beach, the coconut trees bent in its path.

Jules and I walked with the wind at our backs and soon reached a point where the incoming tide made it difficult to continue. When we had a short swim, the wind whipped up waves big enough to push us away from our entry point. Going back to Teddys camp, a haven from the blasting sand, was hard work.

Low tide at Paje. Click to enlarge

On day two we went snorkeling, and what a delight it was. Our captain, Mohammed, took us out in his dugout, which he and his son punted out to the reef. The wind was forgotten as we stared down at thick reef and its community of fishies. I saw copper and gold ones for the first time.

Later that afternoon I had the most expensive cheesecake I have ever had in my entire life. It was perfect, with a ginger biscuit crust and a thick, smooth, lemony topping. Wish I could say I didn’t gobble it, but it’s been a while.

The next day Ali, a Paje taxi driver, took us to Jozani Forest where we lingered for two hours before heading to Nungwi. The forest was beautiful. The colobus monkeys, which are indigenous to Zanzibar, had beautiful red pelts and ugly mugs.

There wasn’t a breath of wind when we arrived at Nungwi and the sea had a turquoise stripe a bit thinner than Paje’s beach, and offered sheltered coves at high tide. Ali's first choice of accommodation for us had two bungalows available – with an EN SUITE bathroom with a WORKING shower with HOT and cold water. Okay, our shower didn’t work until day two but we used Mike and Carol’s.

Despite high season in a place lined with resorts and hotels including a Hilton, Jules and I swam alone when we went in for our first dip.

Our snorkel at Nungwi was a full day trip to an atoll, where the coral was mostly bleached white but the fish were stupendous. I got that burn-first-itch-like-hell-later-something-in-the-water-bit-me rash the next day. The problem with seductions is that they often lead to STDs. I’ve got Snorkeling Transmitted Disease. Will it dampen my passion? Like hell!

Best of all, we met an Aussie couple on the boat – Shirley and Roger – and had two visits with them afterwards. So nice to meet mature, interesting people. The one problem with being a low-budget traveller is that you share accommodation mostly with backpacking teenagers and people a year or two older than that.

Ramadaan almost ceased to exist on Zanzibar’s tourist beaches. At Teddys camp in Paje, they closed the bar from 6.30 to 7.30pm but the rest of the time they merrily dished out haram booze to all comers. In Nungwi the beach bars and restaurants all had happy hour at sunset – set their tables on the sand and sold the booze at even cheaper rates. One place also served a “becon” burger. 

Happy hour at Nungwi

The sunsets were as delectable as the milkshakes and fruit smoothies made with fruit cut up at the bar. All the bars had blenders and they added yumminess like icecream, yoghurt, spices and honey.

I ate affordable, delicious lobster in Nungwi and had my best meal in Zanzibar there – a cocunut prawn curry.

On the ferry back to Dar I was horribly sea sick for the first time in my life, puked till my stomach hit my spine. Jules said I turned white first, then several shades of yellow.

Today we went shopping in Dar es Salaam for the next leg of our journey – using public transport and schlepping our goods in our backpacks across the city (sometimes I do miss the Norwood Mall!). We may delay our next trip to the mountains – Meru and Kilimanjaro – because we’re making one more stop on the Indian Ocean. Bagamoyo is beckoning, and it looks like there be reef.