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.
