Day 196 Stone Town Fish Market

After a late morning taxi back to Stone Town, we lunched, walked around town, and then headed to the Stone Town Fish Market after dusk. What was the best part about going to the fish market? Not the fish (although I am now a huge huge fan of barracuda)… No, not Mr. Nutella either, but it was having an expert with us to point out the shady sellers and what was worth trying. Asha had been to the fish market before we met up in Kendwa and had the lowdown on who was who at the fish market. Ok, not exactly. But she knew of at least one dude to avoid and what price on average was good for skewers and sugarcane juice. That was more than we knew and we ran with it.

We had grilled barracuda, lobster skewers, sugar cane juice, and I tried the mango nutella pancake. Our pancakes came with a little Swahili lesson as well. I’ve been thoroughly confused trying to say hello to people throughout this country. When do I say ‘Jambo,’ when do I say ‘Mambo,’ and why do people keep saying ‘Poa’ back to me, but only some of the time? For the past two weeks I’ve simply been taking turns saying ‘Mambo’ and ‘Jambo’ and smiling at their response- whatever their response may be. Mr. Nutella set me straight.

Jambo = hello. You say ‘Jambo’ they say ‘Jambo’ and that is all.

Mambo = how are you. You say ‘Mambo’ they say ‘Poa’ which means ‘fine’

It was all pretty delicious and pretty touristy, but sometimes a little bit touristy is not a bad thing. It was certainly better than sitting down for overpriced fish or grilled (when I ordered fried) calamari.

Day 195 One more day on Kendwa

Again, we did a whole lot of nothing with our one more day on Kendwa beach. That is, after it rained. While it rained, I edited photos and transferred video and a whole lot of editing for when I would have the internet at my disposal again. The interesting thing about Africa- and Tanzania especially- is that the internet is available. Even on Zanzibar, and specifically on Kendwa Beach. But it’s only available to those who want to pay (a lot) to use it. And then you pay a lot to use it (as I did) and it isn’t good for anything other than emailing and updating your Facebook status. This irked me. As much as I hate being behind on the blog, I hate paying for not even slightly mediocre internet (I’m looking at YOU Kendwa Rocks.) even more.

We waited out the rain, and then resumed lounging around under umbrellas until one last dinner with Cristina and Asha.

Day 193 Nungwi to Kendwa

Our new friends (from Arusha) texted where they had settled on Kendwa Beach. Kendwa is just south of Nungwi, and we had planned on meeting up with them when they arrived. More like, as soon as I was finished hanging out with the sea turtles. It was simply so peaceful (as you can see above – and you can catch one of them coming up for air, although it might not amuse you as much as it did us). Needless to say, it was hard to tear myself away from them.

The water was so much clearer today than it was yesterday. I should have went swimming with them again, but thought I was only going to say goodbye instead of sitting and hanging out with them for an hour before we taxied over to Kendwa.

Cristina, Asha, Nora and Tiffany were already on the beach and we chatted for a while before I tried to find some Wi-Fi and they tried to find some cheap massages. Then we all hung out under leafy umbrellas. Sometimes sleeping. Sometimes swimming. Most of the time doing nothing at all. It was glorious.

Day 192: Swimming with sea-turtles

Sea-turtles are the most graceful yet most clumsy animal I’ve ever encountered. Walking down the steps with a bucket of seaweed into their natural aquarium is what I would imagine walking into a room of puppies with an armful of doggie-treats would be like. Somehow they just know you’re there and chances are you have something good for them to eat.

My favorite was the biggest one, a male, roughly around 30 years old would bump all of the other turtles out of the way and then use his front fins to push up out of the water. I’m not quite sure why he did this, because eating the seaweed in the air did not seem to work at all. It needed to be in the water so then he, like the rest, could scoop it up in their mouths. But I like to think he was always trying to give me a little bit of a hug, if he could, by pushing up on the rocks to greet me the way he did.

When I finally mustered up the courage to climb in the pool with the ten turtles, Andrew and I timed it out. He would fed them on one end of the ledge while I scampered in unnoticed at the other end and perched on a rock that was slowly becoming submerged with the tide coming in. When the turtles ate all of the seaweed Andrew had thrown in, they would circle back to me, as if I had some hidden. They are totally harmless, but I would get a little nervous every time they surrounded me. I thought I was being a bit of a baby until Andrew got in and would not move his hands away from his manhood. Like they were going to bite it off or something.

I became totally fascinated watching the turtles rise out of water for a breath of fresh air. It’s like they are all born being super old open mouth breathers or something because they sounded absolutely ridiculous breathing. I set out to capture it on camera, but I would always miss it. We took turns. Jumping in and swimming. feeding. taking pictures. And then we just hung out on the steps with them for awhile, like we had an aquarium all to ourselves. Eventually, Andrew dragged me away, promising me they’d be back after we went to the beach.

After we went swimming, we went to a restaurant on the beach. At the restaurant next-door, a Masai wedding began to take place. A Western woman was marrying a “warrior.” I put quotations around warrior, because some Canadian girls at the table next to us asked our waiter if he was really a Masai. They had heard that none of the Masai on the island were real Masai, that it was only for the tourists… Our waiter smiled, and didn’t comment. We all laughed. From what we could see, the wedding consisted of a few pictures and then some singing. When we all moved out onto the beach for dinner, the wedding party had disappeared.

Day 191: Stone Town to Nungwi

I was excited and a little on edge about heading to Nungwi and Kendwa. These are the two beaches on the northern and western part of the island. While undoubtedly beautiful, there was a reputation for theft. Theft from your hotel room, theft from hotel safes, theft on the beach… and, per usual, it was advised not to walk around at night. I tried to concentrate on the beauty of the scenery instead of the logistics of how I was going to go swimming with my laptop, camera, iphone, wallet- not leaving anything in the guesthouse room or on the beach for someone to walk away with. This concentration led to an experiment of photos taken from the dala dala window on our drive up. Some are a bit blurry, but I quite liked the watercolor-esque tone that the images took on.

We dropped several people off outside of different guesthouses and one fancy hotel where I lusted after the cool wet towel that was immediately handed to their new guest. One day I will be that kind of guest. One day…

Then we rolled up to the guesthouse Andrew had read about. It was close to the beach. It wasn’t a hotbox ON the beach. And there were sea-turtles. Unfortunately, upon first glance, it looked shabby. All of the warnings Andrew had read aloud to me about what to try to avoid clouded my judgement, the malaria meds got the best of me, and I immediately envisioned all of our things getting stolen and several nights of restless sleep for a price that simply made me angry. Not wanting to walk with our bags back into town, we decided to stay, and I continued to feel uncomfortable.

And then, as we waited for our room to be made up, we spotted the natural pool of water and the ten rescued sea-turtles swimming about within it. I watched, mesmerized by them. I took photos of the couple that stopped by to swim with them. We checked into our room and it was cool and clean. I felt better. But not good enough to leave my computer behind while we walked down to the beach.

We jumped in the water and marveled at how few chairs there were set up or people out enjoying the white sands and clear water. Beach boys bombarded us asking if we wanted to go snorkeling with them tomorrow, if we wanted the sunset cruise tonight, and even if we wanted something to smoke or snort… We said “No” and explained we were just there for the beach (and calamari for me, beer for Andrew).

Day 190 Stone Town

Stone Town is the old part of Zanzibar City, on Zanzibar, an island off the coast of Tanzania mainland. At one time, it was the vibrant center of the spice and slave trades. It’s an UNESCO World Heritage Site because of the confluence of Swahili, Arab, Indian, even European (and possibly more) architecture. It reminded both of us of the medinas in Morocco.

Our day began with a (somewhat) quick trip to the Mozambican consulate on the island. We needed visas for our planned overland crossing from Tanzania next week. We were a little nervous because quite a few requirements were listed that we weren’t sure we could provide. Namely; a hotel booking for our first night there (there wasn’t a hotel- at least online- in the first city we were going to stop in), and recent bank statements. The woman at the desk clearly didn’t care to see any bank statements, didn’t ask for where we were going to stay, and only had us fill in half of the form, before asking us for our passport pictures. I fished out two older pictures where I have bright blond (more like yellow) hair, not exactly corresponding to the long brown hair in my passport. Andrew fished out two recent pictures where he’s wearing a bandana, he’s not wearing glasses, and he’s at least 100 pounds lighter than his nine-year-old passport.

This was problematic. My yellow hair picture, not so much. Andrew’s skinny-without glasses-with a bandana picture.

“It’s big problem.” We were told.

Andrew tried to explain that the passport is nine years old. That he doesn’t wear glasses anymore, let alone have a pair with him on Zanzibar. She eyed everything suspiciously.

“You need a photo without this.” She said, pointing to the bandana. I took a deep breath and then realized I had my (replacement) Polaroid camera with me. – My original camera was taken in Nepal. Unbeknownst to me, Andrew had ordered a replacement for me for Christmas. His mom sent it to the UAE, but their postal system didn’t notify our friends living there. It was sent back to Wisconsin. His mom (Thanks Chari!) sent it again, this time to Tanzania, and when Andrew went to “the bank” he came back with a box of treats for both of us from the post office!

“Ok. Hold on.” I told the clerk, and assured Andrew it would work. We went outside and took a passport photo, printed two copies, and handed them over to the clerk. One cleaning woman was watching this whole process in complete awe that we were able to print a photo off immediately after taking it. I took one of her and I think her enthusiasm swayed the clerk inside to accept Andrew’s makeshift, newly printed passport photos.

We handed our passports over for the week, and then went exploring around Stone Town. Starting first at the former slave market. Now, a hostel (weird) stands over the cells where up to seventy-five slaves were held at once in a way too tiny space as you can see Andrew trying to squeeze into it.

The area where we were standing was where the slaves would go to the bathroom, and at high tide, the water would rise in and take the waste away. Most slaves were brought here and kept for a couple of days until the market was held on Sunday.

After the slave market was closed by Sultan Barghash in 1873, missionaries bought the site and built a cathedral. Inside the church, we were shown the site of the former “whipping tree” where slaves were beaten during the auction (or market, or whatever you want to call it) to show how strong they were. Now, a gold plate lies in place of the tree directly in front of the altar.

We wandered through Stone Town around the time that school children were let out, I’m assuming for a siesta. One girl walked with us, not saying anything, just keeping us company after her friends departed. This has happened before and it warms my heart to no end.

Looking for a snack, and being a huge Queen fan, we made our way to Mercury’s. A little bit of trivia for you: Freddie Mercury was born on Zanzibar. Hence, the bar/restaurant. It was right on the water and had a beautiful view- but the food was minimal and ridiculously overpriced. When we arrived, I debated getting a t-shirt. When we left, I was still hungry and plotted out my TripAdvisor review. Luckily the mini-store across the street had banana chips (my favorite snack so far in Africa) seasoned with chili (even better). We nibbled as we made our way back to our guesthouse for an air-conditioned siesta.

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 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.