In December
of 2010 I organized a trip which took me from Juba to
Nairobi,
then by overnight train to
Mombasa (See “The
Night Train to
Mombasa”), thence by boat to
Zanzibar Island
off the coast of
Tanzania.
I finished the trip by taking a ferry from
Zanzibar to Dar es-Salaam in
Tanzania
and then flying back to Juba via
Nairobi.
I like
making circular trips, traveling in a single direction.
I don’t like having to either backtrack or
return over territory I’ve already covered.
It boarders on the maniacal I suppose, though I am willing to make
tactical retreats where necessary.
Anyway, it was nice to get away in the days before Christmas and to have
the opportunity to see some of Africa beyond
South Sudan.
It was
important to me to arrive on
Zanzibar
by boat.
How else could you approach an
island except by water, really?
Arriving
by air seemed pointless.
However,
finding a water route to
Zanzibar
proved quite difficult.
Ferries which
used to operate between
Mombasa
and other points along the Tanzanian coast had ceased operating.
I figured I could travel by bus from
Mombasa to Dar and then take the ferry over, but that went
against my principles since I would have to ferry again from
Zanzibar back to Dar when my trip was over.
And besides, long distance buses in
Africa are nearly always miserable.
Searching
on-line for a water-borne option, and I did waste some work-time planning my
trip, finally turned-up a cruise-ship that was making a five day journey out of
Mombasa but which would, if requested, drop passengers off at Stone Town on
Zanzibar the first morning out of port.
Perfect!
I made a reservation
satisfied that I had found the final link in the chain of my adventure.
And just making reservations from
South Sudan was difficult.
There are few on-line credit-card purchases
in
Africa, and you wouldn’t feel safe giving
credit card information over a cell-phone.
I had to wire funds from Juba to
Nairobi
for my train ticket and hotel reservations on
Zanzibar, and through the use of scanned
forms was able to book my cruise-ship tickets via email.
People back home don’t appreciate the ease
with which they can be parted from their money.
I found
Mombasa dreary, just a large commercial city, like
Omaha but hotter and
grimier.
The locals were pleasant
enough, no one bothered me.
The city is
overwhelmingly Muslim, and even the Anglican Cathedral was heavily influenced
by Islamic architecture, though the interior bore traces of the British who
occupied the country for so long.
There
were innumerable brass plaques lining the walls giving testimony to the piety
of past congregants.
“Sir Reginald
Thomas Plash was a dedicated member for forty years,” “Edward Lukken Willoughby
served on the vestry for twenty years, 1910-1930,” “Lady Davinia Swindle Ernst
sang in the choir for many years,” etc.
It was all very charming and I was surprised in the middle of the day to
have the cathedral to myself.
I was so
glad to be leaving
Mombasa
that I left for the cruise ship an hour earlier than necessary.
My scooter rickshaw driver had a hard time
finding the dock; I had to keep giving him directions even though he was
local.
I was the first passenger to
arrive and the operators were not quite ready for me so I was left to cool in
the company’s offices.
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| "Ocean Mist" |
The ship was
called the “Ocean Mist.”
It was
Cambodian flagged and had just undergone extensive renovations to the tune of
millions of dollars according to one of the crew.
The captain was an old Greek, looking
perfectly cast in his role.
This was
going to be its maiden voyage.
If that
was the case I felt sorry for the investors.
The ship was nearly empty, probably no more than forty or fifty
passengers for a ship that could carry over 200.
My impression was that most of the passengers
were Iranian or some other type of middle-easterners who had come for the
prospect of gambling in the ship’s casino.
Swarthy, secretive men trailed by numerous silent women clad in
bhurkas.
Westerners whose only
impression of people from Arab countries is from movies or television do not
appreciate the individuality that bhurka clad women are able to exhibit.
Far from monolithic or dull they are highly
expressive in their accents and details in addition to the henna tattooing with
which married women adorn themselves.
Because this
was the ship’s maiden voyage the operators had gone to a lot of trouble to
arrange for local musicians decked out in African garb beating drums and other
percussion instruments to line the walkway to welcome the guests.
It was somewhat gruesome, like someone’s
twisted version from an old Tarzan movie of what Africans should look and sound
like.
Still, it was entertaining.
Since I had arrived so early I was able to
retire to the upper open deck and sip a Coke and watch everyone else arrive.
It wasn’t cheap; my one night cost me $250
with everything included, but after nearly a year in
Juba
I was ready for some luxury and the ship was very, very nice.
The
operators had requested that passengers dress for dinner.
As I always travel in a suit, something I
learned early on gets you far better service than dressing like a typical
American in ragged jeans and a dirty t-shirt, I arrived in the dining room
comfortably attired.
Given the low
number of passengers the ratio between staff and customers was ridiculous.
Throughout my dinner I was never surrounded
by fewer than four waitpersons who seemed to hang on my every mouthful and who
whisked plates away and placed new ones before me with astonishing speed.
At the end I wanted to linger over my coffee
but it felt so uncomfortable being stared at by so many staff I finally left.
When I
awoke the next morning I found that we were just arriving at
Stone Town,
the capital of
Zanzibar.
I motored to shore and wound my way through
the famous narrow streets and alleyways.
I was heading for the guest house located adjacent to the Anglican
Cathedral.
I had studied a map of
Stone Town
in my “Lonely Planet” guide to
Africa, but it
was difficult to keep track of all the streets which were like walking through
a maze.
I find it intimidating when I
arrive in a strange place like
Zanzibar.
Although you cannot help but be observed to
be a tourist, still you do not want to appear to be a complete sap being easy
prey for the touts and others who can cause trouble.
The one thing I knew was that the cathedral
was located on one of the highest points in town and so I figured so long as I
kept walking upwards I would find it which I eventually did.
Probably from the time I arrived on the
island until the time I reached the guest house had only been about ten minutes
but it felt like I had been walking for hours.
The air even in the morning was hot and humid.
The
Anglican Cathedral in
Stone
Town was built atop the
site of the last slave market.
Arab
traders had for centuries brought slaves captured all over the African interior
to
Zanzibar for
sale.
One of the first Anglican
missionaries decided to build the cathedral right on the site, the altar being
built on the spot where the tree to which slaves were lashed was located.
There is a museum on the cathedral grounds
describing the history of slavery on
Zanzibar.
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| Anglican Guest House |
The guest house was a lovely two story
structure located next door, nestled amongst palms and flame-trees and covered
with bougainvillea.
My room was charming
with cool tile floors and a four poster bed inset with decorative tiles.
Zanzibar
is predominantly Muslim and two mosques were located close by the
cathedral.
The muezzin sings out the
first calls for prayers at 5:30am which made for early mornings.
Even in
Juba
I know it is a tough night’s sleep when I am awake early enough to hear the
first call to prayer.
People at the
cathedral with whom I spoke said that by and large Christians and Muslims got
along well, though I heard a few months ago that in reaction to some perceived
slight some Muslims had rampaged through
Stone Town
and destroyed a church.
I wonder if
having to wake up so early every morning puts some Muslims in a perpetually bad
mood.
Stone Town
is a walker’s delight.
The heart of the
old central part of town consists of numerous narrow alleyways, wide enough
only for pedestrians or scooters.
You
can spend wonderful hours wandering through the alleyways admiring the
architecture, much of it Arabic in character.
Doorways in particular feature extensive decorative carving and
wrought-iron hardware.
I found the
residents pleasant though non-committal, no one bothered me (other than touts)
but no one really greeted me either.
I arrived
in
Stone Town on a Saturday morning because I was
keen to attend Sunday services at the cathedral.
I understood that the main service was in
Kiswahili, of which I have a poor grasp, but that there was an English service
as well.
Sadly, the English service was
attended by only about a dozen parishioners and rather than being held in the
cathedral proper was held in a small chapel next door.
Most of my fellow congregants were tourists
like me, just passing through.
One thing
that did annoy me though was that the service was at 8am.
The cathedral’s website said the English
service was much later in the day the result of which I delayed my planned
departure for the beach until Monday.
But once I arrived and learned of the early morning service I regretted
that I would have to burn another day wandering around Stone Town – which
honestly, you can get a good feel for in a couple of hours
– rather than head to the beach.
On Sunday I
purchased some plantains and locally made bread and bottles of water.
The beach resort I was heading to was located
on an isolated stretch of beach and I was afraid supplies would either be
difficult to find or terribly expensive.
I learned both the positives and negatives of human behavior that
day.
In the main market in
Stone Town
I purchased plantains and bread but had to pay inflated “muzungu” prices.
I remember when I was buying the loaf of
bread the price the seller quoted me was twice what the local lady before me
had paid for the same item.
When I
complained to the seller she merely shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “tough.”
I told her she should not engage in such
practices, it was dishonest.
But in the
small Indian owned shop where I purchased bottles of water and some other small
items, all I had were a few large Tanzanian notes and the owner said she could
not make change.
This lady, who had
never seen me before in her life, allowed me to take my bag of groceries with
me with the promise that I would return later and pay her what I owed.
I was overwhelmed by her trust and kindness
and I made a frantic effort to break my large bills so I could return and pay
the shop what I owed.
In the
evenings vendor’s set-up grills all over the main square down near the harbor
where you can wander the stalls until you find what looks good and then order
your dinner.
Being an island there was
all manner of seafood which would be made into kebabs and cooked over the
flames.
I had some fish and chicken
kebabs, it was great and watching the large crowds milling about the square was
a pleasant way to spend the evening.
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| Buses in Zanzibar |
I opted to
take the local bus to the beach.
If you
want to get to know a place, take the local transport.
Lonely Planet said Bus 309 would take me to
Jambiani Beach and sure enough it did.
The bus park was located near the guest house
and I arrived on Monday morning after breakfast.
There were dozens of buses of all
descriptions heading everywhere.
Decently enough, they line up in numerical order and although 309 hadn’t
arrived yet, it was easy enough to find the place where I should wait.
I had to fend-off numerous touts offering
taxis and many other items for sale.
At
one point a young Masai male arrived, decked out as they always are in red
plaid and equipped with his dagger and other accoutrements.
He looked so lost and terribly out of place I
was compelled to ask him if he needed help but he said he was ok, just waiting
for another bus.
After about
an hour bus 309 arrived.
The bus was a
mid-sized truck in which the box-cab in the back had been removed and replaced
with bench seats along both sides and covered with a canopy.
A handful of us climbed in, and I sat towards
the front on the right side.
The
schedule required about three hours which I found hard to believe for a trip of
only around 30-miles.
But not long after
we started we stopped in a commercial district along the main road where for
over an hour dozens of sacks of flour and sugar and other commodities were
loaded onto the canopy roof.
Another
stop a few doors away added more freight to our roof and I realized that it was
the freight and not the passengers which really paid for this trip down to the
far coast of the island.
Once we got
going we also stopped frequently to pick-up passengers who waved down the bus
and by the time we got deep into the countryside around two dozen people were squeezed
into the seats along with a pile of luggage.
The seat next to me was the last to be occupied, no one wanting to sit
next to the “muzungu,” until there was no where else left to sit.
So often in
Africa
I have been the only white person and it is an interesting experience, one that
teaches you about vulnerability and humility and kindness.
After
almost exactly three hours we arrived at my hotel.
The cost for the bus ride was 1500-shillings,
or a little over a dollar.
By
comparison, when I returned to
Stone
Town a couple of days
later opting to use the hotel’s car it cost around $60.
I actually overpaid on the bus, giving the
young boy who collected the money 2000-shillings, and he returned my change.
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| Jambiani Beach, Zanzibar |
I stayed at
the Blue Oyster Hotel, a fantastic hotel located directly upon
Jambiani Beach
on the southeast coast of
Zanzibar.
I was attracted to Jambiani from Lonely
Planet’s description of it as quiet and it was that.
Pristine white sand, turquoise colored
bathtub warm gentle water, swaying palm trees – it was the closest to paradise
I have ever been.
The Blue Oyster was a
German owned hotel run with great efficiency.
My room was sumptuous located on the ground floor of a two story cottage
just off the beach.
When I arrived my
bed was strewn with flowers and I felt immediately at ease.
I really appreciated the opportunity to relax
and unwind.
 |
| View out my door |
The hotel
offered entertainments such as visiting a nearby nature park or going out on a
small boat to the coral reef offshore to go snorkeling, but I opted to stay put
and relax, taking occasional walks along the beach.
At low tide the water recedes about a half
mile from shore and locals, mainly women, arrive to tend seaweed which they
grow in beds on the sea floor.
Stakes
are driven into the ground about ten feet apart and string stretched between
the stakes.
Seaweed is planted at one
end and follows the string to create rectangular patches.
The water is so clear the plants would
receive sunlight all day.
The women come
out at low tide to collect the day’s harvest into large sacks.
Who buys it I don’t know, I couldn’t
communicate with any of the women to learn much.
Nearly all
the other guests were Germans.
I met one
chubby German who was there with his family.
He had lived in Dar for a couple of years working for a company.
He said he loved it and would keep signing up
since it was much more pleasant than living in
Germany and it allowed him to
indulge his hobby of scuba diving.
The
only awkward social moment was when they had this special moonlight dinner on
the beach.
It was a great dinner sitting
on the beach on a warm pleasant evening under a full moon rising out of the
Indian Ocean.
But
I was the only person eating alone and they had stuck my table right in the
middle of the place.
It was hard not to
be self-conscious of eating alone.
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| Dar es-Salaam ferry dock, Zanzibar |
The
ferry-ride to Dar was uneventful.
I had
intended to save $5 by buying a second-class ticket but the ticket seller
insisted I buy first-class.
I was
thankful I did since first class was air-conditioned which in the great heat
and humidity was merciful.
Getting onto
the ferry, I began to really feel more like an African.
In
Africa
there are no ques, you simply have to push and shove your way through the
crowd, and it’s everyone for themselves.
When I first arrived I found this intimidating but I remember smiling to
myself as I maneuvered my way through the crowd thinking that I was really
starting to fit in.
Like most
African cities Dar was a hole, a dirty, stinking hot sweaty place.
Coming off the boat you are immediately
assaulted by touts offering taxis and hotels.
I had already picked-out one or two hotels to try.
I had to be at the airport early the next
morning so I only needed a room for a few hours, long enough to catch a nap and
explore Dar some.
But it was a few days
before Christmas and all the hotels I checked were full.
After the third hotel said they were full I
instead just took a taxi to the airport, difficult in the late afternoon
traffic heading out of town.
It meant
about a ten hour wait at the airport but I didn’t care.
I was
just glad to be heading back to
Juba, back
home as it were.
