Day 189 Dar to Zanzibar

See ya, Dar! We’re heading to Zanzibar! We were both looking forward to a vacation from our vacation on the island. A few days on a beach. A respite. A break is exactly what we needed after what felt like a whirlwind of Tanzania. We caught the ferry early in the afternoon and arrived on Zanzibar, to the expected (by now) taxi-driver gauntlet two and a half hours later. While it is an island, Stonetown especially is not new to the tourist circuit and immediately we had “tourist officials” offering their services. Despite being in a seedy part of Stonetown, Andrew read good reviews about one guesthouse and wanted to check it out. It wasn’t far from the port. We walked. Tourist Official #1 tagged along, introducing himself and informing us we weren’t in a good part of town. I humored him, looking at his laminated identification card on his lanyard and thanked him, while Andrew asked a shopkeeper for directions instead. He waited and walked with us (uninvited) to the guesthouse. That… turned out to be a joke. A way overpriced joke. We left and started walking across Stonetown (not so far really, maybe a mile? maybe less?) to check on the other recommended guesthouse.

En route, Tourist Official #2 offered his services. I stopped myself from rolling my eyes and wondered how many men were in on this scam, laminating their own ids and approaching tourists. Instead I shouted ahead to Andrew (as always, I’m trailing behind) “Andrew! Would you believe this kind sir has a guesthouse he would like to take us to? Isn’t that SO NICE of him? And he can help with everything we need on the island!” The “Official” picked up on the fact that we would not be in need of his services and meandered away.

But then, Tourist Official #1 magically reappeared. And this made me super uncomfortable. Either it was a complete coincidence or he was going to walk with us and then collect a commission by telling the owner of the guesthouse that he had brought us there. I couldn’t be too sure and my mouth was a little bit quicker than my mind (which often leads to trouble).

“What are you doing here, you crazy stalker?” I asked in a joking manner, but hoping to convey my I-don’t-want-you-following-me message. He didn’t pick up on my joking tone. He stopped short and his face turned creepy defensive.

“What did you say?” He asked.

“I said you were a crazy stalker.” I replied, now annoyed that he was the one questioning me. He told me he was on his way home or something like that, that could have been believable, only I wasn’t buying it and did not trust him. I like to think that I’ve gotten pretty good at reading other people on this trip. I’m not perfect. But, if I get a weird feeling about someone, chances are they are up to no good. And that’s exactly how I felt about this guy.

“I’ve been to America.” He said totally randomly, as he continued, yet again, to walk with us down the street to the guesthouse at the end.

“Then you would know that what you are doing is wrong!” I said, feeling myself getting worked up over him continuing to follow us.

We ended up taking a room at the guesthouse. Creepy McCreeperson hung out outside of the gueshouse for an hour and even went inside to talk to the frontdesk clerk. Maybe he was just on his way home and happened to be friends with the guys working at the guesthouse, but when we returned to Stonetown the following week, the price (at the same place) was cheaper, so I can’t be entirely sure if he really did get a commission or the guesthouse screwed us over. Regardless, it wasn’t the most welcoming first day on Zanzibar.

Day 188 Dar Es Salaam

This is the view from our hotel. I would share a video and more pictures from our day, but unfortunately I didn’t feel comfortable at. all. taking my camera out as we walked around Dar Es Salaam. And by “walked around Dar Es Salaam” I mean, walked for fifteen minutes from our hotel to the ferry to check times for the next day. After we checked times, we took an overpriced taxi to a coffee shop where we hung out all afternoon before meeting up with our friends Maryama and Emma for dinner. Aside from their wonderful company, it was a rather uneventful day.

Dar is less thrilling than Kampala was. At least in Kampala there were people around and the city had a bit of a buzz to it. In Dar, especially on a Sunday, it was void of energy, and had a creepy air to it, as if you were to take out your camera or not pay strict attention to your bag, one or both would disappear.

It’s frustrating, at least for me, to be in a place that I want to capture and be unable to take a photo. Instead, I kept everything on lockdown, keeping in mind that being able to take pictures later would be better than getting my camera stolen and not being able to take pictures at all.

Day 187 Arusha to Dar Es Salaam

We’ve lost count of how many terrible bus experiences we’ve had. This one joined the list. I didn’t have enough leg room, which means, Andrew had it even worse. And for some reason, bus drivers in select countries around the world seem to think blasting music is mandatory for journeys clocking in at twelve hours or more, even when these journeys begin at six in the morning.

Gospel music with close up booty shots were on the menu this morning. It only got worse as the day continued with a low budget African movie full of slapstick “comedy” and one man cutting off his own toe. Strange? Not to all of the other passengers on the bus…

We arrived in Dar around dusk and immediately ran into two of our new friends from Arusha. After dinner, we all crashed. Dar doesn’t offer much to do by day, and it’s advised not to go out at night. It’s nights like these that make me grateful for Andrew’s hard-drive of movies and television. We watched Project Runway (All Stars. Is it just me or is Heidi’s replacement, Caroline kind of annoying?) and crashed.

Day 197 Zanzibar back to Dar

Instead of recounting the series of unfortunate events that led me to getting only slightly ripped off (instead of completely) while purchasing our ferry tickets from Zanzibar back to Dar Es Salaam, I will simply say this:

Zanzibar is beautiful. Walking around Stone Town, swimming with the sea-turtles, lounging on the pristine beaches was really, really lovely. But it was all marred due to the fact that my guard was constantly up trying to avoid getting scammed. This feeling was not aided by the fact that we usually returned to our room before dark to avoid getting mugged on the beach throughout our visit. As unbelievably gorgeous and so rich with history and culture, after the hour I spent trying to get a ferry ticket without paying extra for commission, yet ending up paying extra due to the false exchange rate the “official” ferry ticket booth quoted me, I wanted nothing more than to get off the island… even if it only landed me back in Dar.

Our only plans in Dar were to figure out our bus situation to Mtwara the next day, and to track down some Masai shukkas. We asked the front desk how much a taxi to the market should cost, and headed out to do a little shopping. The girl at the front desk warned us to be careful (the market is notorious for pickpocketing) and that it was very close, but we risked getting mugged just walking there. I tucked my money in my underpants and we asked a taxi driver how much it would cost to get to the market. He told us it would cost nearly four times the amount our front desk friend quoted. We shook our heads and kept walking. We asked another taxi driver. Same story. We kept walking. Eventually, we were halfway there and gave up trying to get a taxi. Hands were in Andrew’s cargo shorts pockets four (he says six) different times. Luckily all he had in them were expired ferry tickets and receipts. No one seemed to be bothered with me. I very clearly had nothing in my pants pockets and my backpack zippers were so locked up in carabiners that it was annoying for

While there was an abundance of beautiful and bright Swahili cloth, it wasn’t what I was after. I was starting to get rather disappointed none of the shops seemed to carry any shukkas. And then, I spotted two Masai. I walked up to them and pointed to the red and blue checked cloths wrapped around them.

“Shuka, where?” I asked them, completely oblivious to how random I must have presented myself, being one of two (Andrew being the other) western faces in the market zoning in on the only two Masai men that we had seen in Dar, let alone that market, all day. One of the men pointed back in the direction that we had just come from. I shook my head and squinted, wondering if he could be more specific. He told his friend to wait and then motioned for me to follow him. We practically retraced our steps until he led me up into a covered sidewalk. Low and behold, a tiny Masai shop was hidden, tucked behind some street vendors, with a handful of men selecting shukas from the tiny counter.

Andrew and I picked out an assortment of shukas, of two different varieties. I was ecstatic. I got them for less than any prices quoted in the touristy market in Arusha, and the scavenger hunt made the find that much sweeter.