Monday, May 31, 2010

Zanzibar: Stone Town

Zanzibar has been a standout destination for Alanna and I ever since we began our Africa research. The name alone conjures an old-world exoticism shared with the likes of Timbuktu and Casablanca. These are places about which I know nothing, but prior to the trip Zanzibar seemed to be a member of the same club, and evoked the same vague ideas of coastal African decadence (incense, steamer trunks, monkeys with hats, et cetera). I still haven't a clue about the other two (they may well not even exist anymore!) but at least we've got Zanzibar pegged.


The tropical island, part of an archipelago of the same name, is as historical as it gets – it's been a major player in intercontinental trade routes since the first century and Stone Town, the island's largest and most famous settlement, has been a town for about as long as people have been naming things 'towns'. At various points in its history the island has belonged to Persian and Arab traders, Omani sultans, the Portuguese, and the British, who controlled the island under a protectorate until it unified with newly-independent Tanzania in 1964. Zanzibar is a significant world supplier of spices, most notably cloves, and is famous for its carved doors and implausibly beautiful beaches.

Door!

More doors! The brass studs are to deter war elephants, obviously.

Zanzibar operates partly as an independent state – I'm not sure how it works but we had to pass through customs upon arrival after a four-hour ferry ride from Dar Es Salaam. We spent the trip cooped in a comfy VIP section (VIP-ness and caucasian-ness being synonymous, apparently) while Muslim prayers played a little too loudly on small TVs. The 'MV Flying Horse' docked in the harbour next to a huge pile of shipping containers, an introduction that didn't exactly scream either 'old-world' nor 'exoticism'. After entry formalities we rapidly became best friends with a middleaged tout who was more than willing to lead us to our hotel. Assuming he'd demand payment for his services we were apprehensive, but another man in the crowd yelled, “you can follow this man, he will not ask you for money!” so off we went. Our impromptu guide hurried us into the narrow maze of streets, all the while providing us with a detailed itinerary of the Zanzibar spice tour (the long-winded explanation of the Zanzibar spice tour is an area of expertise of all touts, we would soon learn). The info was nice and all, but he kept our attention to a point that, once reaching the hotel, we had no recollection of how we got there.


For me, Stone Town was beyond disorienting. The map in our guidebook resembles a bunch of carefully arranged shards of broken glass. It took us a few tries to figure our way back to the ferry dock, where the street was wider and we could find our way to the more touristy shops. Stone Town has what I've heard described as a 'tourist ghetto,' a sterile, compact district of air-conditioned souvenir stores and restaurants seldom visited by any local who's not a security guard, a taxi driver or one of Zanzibar's merciless touts. But Stone Town's tourism setup is such that this was virtually the only place we could find to eat – possibly because if any restaurant opened in more stimulating surrounds, no one would be able to find it.

The view from our hotel's rooftop terrace.

Drinking coconut from a vendor. First he hacks off the top with a knife and hands it to you with a straw. Once you're finished you hand it back and he expertly scrapes all the meat out of the inside and gives it back to you. It's different from coconuts at home, the meat is soft and gelatinous.

common sights: texting, unrefrigerated meat.

Stone town is noted for its unique mix of Arabic, Persian and Swahili architecture, which all seem to be variations on large dim multi-storey buildings with few windows. Often, if it weren't for the many storefronts at ground level, exploring the deeper reaches of Stone Town would feel like walking a narrow alley between two old prisons. It's only once you get above the buildings, or manage a peek into an open door, that you realize that most have courtyards, and the balconies and windows face inwards. The shops themselves – when they aren't a row of needy curio vendors – are suitably old-fashioned: closet-sized convenience stores, woodworkers' shops, and tailors seated at antique Singer sewing machines.


One of the dozens of curio vendors, all hawking the same stuff we've been seeing since Zambia.

A definite highlight – and the one instance where we were able to participate in something not reserved for tourists – were the meals at Forodhani Gardens. Every night at sundown the harbour-side park converts into a street-food market, where forty or so tables sell variations on a few themes: chapati rolled with egg, skewers of fruit, and, most popularly, barbequed seafood. The men behind the tables are all polished salesmen, assuring you of the freshness of the day's catch and the dedication and integrity of that table's respective team of fishermen.


The spreads at some of the seafood tables are astounding: lobster, shrimp, octopus, calamari, and often five or six kinds of fish including marlin, swordfish and shark. As with the rest of Africa's fishing industry, it does make one a little worried at the amount of seafood left in the sea. All is precooked – your selection is reheated over a grill and served with sauce and salad over your choice of flatbread, all for about three bucks.


Cane juice was something that Alanna discovered in Dar Es Salaam, and is a most refreshing and perfectly-balanced beverage. The long cucumber-width cane is pressed mechanically with a few key limes and a shard of ginger and sieved straight into your glass, a large beer-mug's worth for about fifty cents.


Our other activity of note in Stone Town was the world-famous spice tour, which was half fascinating, half making fun of a high-maintenance family of Americans. Instead of visiting a true spice plantation, our guide walked us through a demonstration forest, showing us a plethora of spices in their living form, peeling bark and crushing leaves for us to smell and taste. Never have my fingers been more aromatic! Not surprisingly, most spices look pretty boring when still in the ground.

vanilla!

peppercorns

nutmeg

After a visit to some very dull Persian ruins we were served a delicious lunch, cooked by some local women and incorporating many of the spices we'd just seen. To cap the day off we were to visit a beach – Alanna and mine's first saltwater since South Africa and our first Zanzibar Shore Experience. Well, after a long backroad drive we emerged onto possibly the filthiest, most unswimmable, least appealing stretch of sand on the island. Alanna and I, being the easygoing, non-complaining type, would have probably plunked ourselves on a maggoty log and sat there for the allotted hour, but luckily a talkative older woman in our group demanded to be taken to a better beach. Our driver obliged, and we were bussed to a more suitable spot. The new beach was divided down the center, split between an upmarket resort and a crowded fishing village. On your left, people are using the beach as a surface on which to sun themselves and nibble tapas, on your right people are using the beach to stay alive.

dirty beach

In flowery guidebook introductions the world over, Stone Town is unanimously exalted for its magical, time-capsule quality. Possibly the victims of lofty expectations, we found this to be a little exaggerated. Yes, it's a spectacular place – one does get the impression that life has been rolling along without much variance for centuries, and the carved doors are indeed the handsomest things on hinges, but at the end of the day a narrow stone street is just a narrow stone street. (But what was I expecting? Dancing girls with bells on their toes? Cardamom tossed from the rooftops?) I'll admit that the robed, soccer-playing children and noble old men congregating at the mosques did make one reflect on one's modernity (and, come to think of it, one's exposed ankles). In the end, with all it's become, we felt it was difficult to access what makes Stone Town so special. There's a funny paradox to traveling: the places attempting to cater to tourists are always the places we don't want to be. Imagining Stone Town fifty years ago, we probably would have enjoyed it a little more, when the hassle involved would simply have been the challenge of getting by in a culture different from one's own – for us at least, a much more appealing option.

Monday, May 24, 2010

All Roads Lead to Dar-Es



Into Tanzania


We've traversed this continent in many a vessel – plane, train, boat, bicycle, and every manifestation of bus imaginable – but until recently one mode of transport was noticeably absent off the list: the automobile. (Okay, so we've caught cabs, but for the sake of this introduction's success, let's say those don't count.) Lucky for us, a pair of Israelis with a pickup truck offered to give us a ride across the Tanzanian border to Mbeya, where we were planning on taking the train to Dar Es Salaam. Turns out they were headed to Dar as well, and while a train ride offers a certain romanticism lacking in a four-door Isuzu, logic outweighed sentiment and we joined Adam and Aviel on the 900km journey that comprised our triumphant return to coastal Africa.


"Guiness in Malawi!" I thought, but it was a strange non-alcoholic malt drink tasting like carbonated Ovaltine.

Crossing into Tanzania we left the lake views behind in favour of lush, deep-green hills dense with crops of banana, tea leaves and the ever-present maize. It also meant moving from a country of zero traffic-law enforcement to one with police roadblocks every half-hour. Up until now we'd seen self-driving as a glorious and carefree method of travel, but after contemplating the risks of flaunting foreign license plates through a continent rife with corruption, we realized how much potential hassle we were avoiding by choosing public transport. But we can happily report no incidents, and most of the traffic police were more amusing that intimidating (“the family of Jesus!” one officer exclaimed, upon learning Adam and Aviels' country of origin).

road-trip compatriots

We stretched the drive to a leisurely three days. Our two stopovers served more as refill stations (stomach and wallet as well as gas tank) than anything else but that didn't mean they weren't memorable: Mbeya will hold a special place for introducing us to the avocado milkshake (sorry, guacamole, but we won't be seeing you around the house much anymore) and at our hotel in Iringa we encountered a most puzzling breakfast: a small bowl of beef soup, followed by a plate of plain white bread, half a boiled potato, spaghetti, and a slice of watermelon:


On top of getting across the entire country in comfort and under budget, our Israeli hosts were great travel companions, both generous and entertaining. Adam (in the middle) piloted a tank in the Israeli army for three years only to fail eight consecutive driving tests – he points out, with a tinge of disappointment, that pedestrians and drivers react differently to an automobile than they do to a rolling piece of war machinery. Needless to say Aviel does the driving (though we caught him discussing the four-way-stop as this strange and irrational concept, possible only in a society of wussies, and it showed). The two funded their travels selling cosmetics at a department store – “easy money,” apparently – and much of this wealth seems to be spent on ice cream. In their company we settled into a happy habit of seeking the stuff out two or three times a day.

One advantage to catching the train to Dar Es Salaam, we'd believed, was that it passed through Mikumi National Park, and that wild game was often visible from the tracks. We were pleased to discover the highway bisected the park as well, and for a short section of the drive on our final day we zipped along with buffalo, zebra, warthog, baboon and elephant visible from the road– and all for free! What helped make the moment a highlight (and an extra touch unavailable on a train) was having Paul Simon's Graceland playing on the car stereo, setting the mood oh-so immaculately. I mean, it wasn't a safari or anything, we were traveling at a good clip, so the animals are sort of tough to spot in the photos:




The transition from wild African highway to urban congestion was quick – one moment we were cruising through valleys of baobab trees, next to alone on the highway, and then all of a sudden we found ourselves sandwiched among the slow churn of semi-trucks and minibusses destined for Tanzania's most populous city. The sides of the road were still thick with foliage, but we sensed we were near (the gps helped, naturally). The freight drivers are basically suicidal in Tanzania – they jostled among each other on the narrow road with bold disregard for the wellbeing of everyone involved. If I'd been driving, I would have given up, pulled over, burst into tears and possibly vomited out of anxiety, but Aviel navigated the situation admirably, and with limited expletives.

Dar Es Salaam

skyline from Cousin David's hotel

Once in the city, we found our hotel tucked among a busy cluster of auto-spare dealers doing business out of shops barely larger than the vehicles they carry parts for. We spent two nights in 'Jambo Inn' before moving around the corner to 'Safari Inn,' basically an identical hotel (same noisy ceiling fans, cold showers, and friendly staff) for less money. For such a major city, Dar Es Salaam has almost zero tourist draw. Nevertheless we spent a total of six nights in the city, doing little else, now that I think about it, other than eating curry and walking to the post office and back. At Mushroom Farm in Malawi we spoke with a traveler whose main qualm about the city concerned the amount of mud flicked onto the rear of the leg via sandal, and he was right. The roads are often just big long potholes and every morning, April being the rainy season, a short-but-brutal downpour ensured everything stayed good and frothy – we'd return from our daily post-office jaunt with chocolatey veins crusted down our calves. (The locals seem to have modified their flip-flopping technique to avoid this, as everybody's legs but ours were spotless, but their method escapes me.)



being smart, concealing our valuables


Though Dar is not all mud and boredom – in fact out of the cities we've visited it was one of the more memorable. Over the centuries, with nods to the ivory, spice and slave trades, East Africa has garnered a strong Indian and Arab presence, and Dar Es Salaam could at times be mistaken for somewhere in the Middle East. You feel as though you're in the shadow of a mosque wherever you go, and all of a sudden chapati and roti have replaced maize porridge as the starch of choice. Plus everyone is wearing robes. And did I mention it's hot? A heavy, tropical humidity that ensures the flow of sweat out of your pores is as steady as that of blood through your veins. Cold showers in our hotel, yes, but we wouldn't have it any other way.

After many anticipatory emails, Dar Es Salaam is where we finally met up with my second-cousin David, who is currently amidst a sort-of-crazy, pretty-much-everywhere-in-the-world motorcycle odyssey. Alanna and I graciously accepted his offer to buy us drinks at the rooftop bar of his hotel (pretty swanky, a/c and all the rest, but no Safari Inn). We were able to introduce him to Adam and Aviel, and they exchanged some gps software doohickey, the cause for more celebratory beers. That's what friends/relatives are for! It was good to see a familiar face, even if you haven't seen that face in several years and that face is covered in notably more facial hair than you remember.


Dar Es Salaam was christened (allah'd?) as such by a Zanzibari Sultan in the 1860's, and means “Haven of Peace.” While it may have been the case at the time, it is a slight misnomer at present. Not that Dar is an unpleasant city, but after a while it just got tiring, for the same reason it's appealing: its density, its hustle, its energy. I had to sort of psych myself up just to walk to the bank. We visited the nearby mall – and the movie theatre within – three times, for respite just as much as to pass the time. I could get used to it all, yeah, but I could also get used to a mud hut, and at least then I'd have a good excuse for having the stuff all over my legs.