Fabpants in Africa: Days Eight to Twelve

Fabpants in Africa: The First Three Days
Fabpants in Africa: Days Four to Seven

Zanzibar Zanzibar Zanzibar! Guess where I have been for the past few days? Yes, it’s not hard to guess. I’ve been on the wonderful island of Zanzibar. Zanzibar is an island steeped in history and culture. Zanzibar is home to a thousand smiling jambos. Zanzibar has strong Arabic roots and was once home to the East African slave trade. Once upon a time ago 50,000 slaves a year passed through Zanzibar City. Those were the bad times when smiles were rare.

As Marco Polo once told me, unlike Kenya, the citizens of Zanzibar at not at risk of tribal tension; for the most part, they have no idea what tribe they descended from. They descend from slaves. Marco Polo is a beach boy. Marco Polo hasn’t travelled much.

Ninety nine percent Muslim, the citizens of Zanzibar are mostly friendly and extremely welcoming. The distribution of wealth seems more even than on the mainland of Tanzania and I have yet to encounter any adult beggars. Children always want pens, and on Zanzibar a few have requested footballs.

Perhaps even more so than on the mainland, the English premiership rules. Elderly Muslim ladies sport Manchester United and Arsenal Football Club plastic bags. A well loved Arsenal Gunners truck rolls gently along sandy roads. It’s the cleanest truck on the island.

My first port of call was the UNESCO World Heritage Site of Stone Town, and deservedly so. Stone Town is ace. Full stop. Using Middle Eastern, Moorish, Indian and African architectural styles, the town is comprised of narrow winding alleyways and boasts an amphitheatre, a Sultans palace and a bustling market. Large carved doors and covered balconies are still crafted today, and the ongoing preservation of the town can be witnessed firsthand.

I am travelling through East Africa during a lull. I am travelling at the best possible time. Stone Town was mostly empty during my stay, and the lesser spotted tourist and their eager guides walked with ease. I can thoroughly recommend the night market, entirely lit by candles and oil lamps, and selling freshly cooked delicacies for all. It provides for a festival atmosphere in just one amazing street. I hear that it once specialised in fish but it now offers a wide range of treats for all; vegans included.

All towns should have such a night market. I want one at home; one that will feed an awkward sod like me. I ate a Zanzibar pizza, which is more like a dairy-free pancake. They fill them with salad and savouries, but I had banana inside and vegan chocolate sauce on top. I read the ingredients as the easy going staff efficiently continued to prepare, cook and slice. Before feeling the impact, I moved onto samosa and chips, with salt and lemon. I soon felt as full as a balloon that's stretched to its very limits.

I staggered the excess off, or incorporated it into my being, and, in a dark alley, discovered that ‘pimp my ride’ has not neglected Stone Town. A uniquely pimped car, with a baby theme, stood before me. It even cried when reversing. Pimped cars aside, Stone Town is a moped heaven. Leaping out of the way of them in thin alleyways is a delight for all. I was reminded of Seville and Spanish nights.

While people still carry heavy loads on bicycles and carts, the town felt generally felt wealthy and the locals seemed healthy, well-fed and happy. Stone Town in the lull is great. Maybe one day I'll get to see Prisoner Island too. I'm glad slavery is no longer common practice. Sometimes I find it hard to comprehend the evil of humankind.

From Stone Town we caught a 'real' darla darla. What is real and what is not is a mystery, and travellers talk a lot of shit. All the same it was like travelling in a covered truck with side benches. Above us a strong roof carried luggage, fruit and wood. Later I travelled on one that carried bicycles. On the suburbs of Stone Town, fields of brightly coloured refuge hid just outside the UNESCO World Heritage site, and the truck got fuller and fuller. The weight of fifteen people pressed against my legs and pushed me into the hard edge of an end bench, sitting perpendicular to my own.

Following a recommendation, I was headed towards a seaside lodge in Paje and this is where the darla darla set me down. The main street of Paje wasn’t inviting. It looked rough and billboards for tourists were everywhere. At a small shop, with a counter that faced the main road, and all its wares behind, inquiries about lodges, and where they sit, became a game of Chinese whispers. Following the final whisper, and the involvement of people from both sides of the street, I found myself on the back of a 'real' truck, carrying wood, five boys, an adult and us; open air travelling in rural Africa.

It’s not surprising the lodge was unknown. It was unwelcoming. I felt prejudged. Does a rucksack and a couple of piercings make me a bad person? I was made to feel inadequate and yet I can’t quite say how. Two hitched rides later (one in a car and one in an empty bus), and I was in the 6000 strong village of Jambiani; and fucking eh to Jambiani. Jambiani is the dogs. A village of sandy roads and Rasta run hotels like Mount Zion, One Love and Kimte. Coco Beach was our home. Little thatched huts with en-suite facilities and seaside views. I met Marco Polo and Mosquito in Jambiani; the beach boy names had an edge to them. It was low season and our numbers were few; and I am eternally grateful.

In Jambiani, I watched women gather seaweed from their low tide farms. Small wooden poles mark out the square fields that appear in the morning when the sea goes out to nap. I saw two white sharks, dead and ready for a trip into town and the marketplace. Men fish in the day and play football at dusk. Several Jambiani Premiership games appear across the village for the old men to watch in both delight and envy.

The children run free, racing bicycle wheels with sticks like Victorian urchins, and attending limited classes at the village's two schools. 'Picture, Picture'. They run up to tourists and greet them with wide eyes. 'Jambo, Jambo'. For my camera they adopted martial arts poses, or ugly expressions, and then gathered round to see the digital image of their mischief with relish.

Not far away, one of the world's 25 global biodiversity hotspots lies; protected from deforestation and mutilation. The Jozani Chwaka Bay National Park showed me endangered Red Colobus Monkeys, a mangrove forest, and a small anteater with its snout rustling through the leaves. The Red Colobus monkeys are indigenous only to Zanzibar. Approximately, 1,000 of them live in and around the protected forest. The sneaky ones live close to the road for easy meals.

Zanzibar is an island that provides, albeit sometimes at its own pace. At the park we waited ninety minutes for lunch. Two young children disappeared down the pathway and came back with a half full plastic bag. They disappeared again, only to reappear with large bundles of wood. Did the children collect our food and the fuel to cook it, while we watched the adults eating chapati as the day slipped by?

For the moment, I am back in Dar es Salaam. I spent last night in the Kilimanjaro Hotel. That's the hotel George Bush stayed in just days ago. I was bought a meal so expensive that it made a mockery of holiday budgeting and the ladies that collect seaweed at dawn. The toilet had a prime view of the bay.

The future is here, so read it next:
Fabpants in Africa: Days Thirteen to Twenty One
Fabpants in Africa: The Last Six Days