Arusha Arusha Update 5

I found these scrawlings recently in my notebook that were intended to be my next Tanzanian update. Thought I may as well post them to finish off the series…

“Welcome to Zanzibar” reads the sign. Upon disembarking the light aircraft on the runway of Zanzibar International Airport and entering the arrivals area I am greeted by a line of deserted immigration desks. Presumably relics of Zanzibar’s independent status prior to the declaration of unity between Tanganyika and Zanzibar which led to the creation of Tanzania in 1964. Or perhaps the immigration officers simply haven’t turned up yet. It’s only 11:30am, and T.I.A. after all…

Having only packed hand luggage, this is my quickest ever airport visit. Plane to bus stop in under a minute. Perhaps not quite the adrenaline rush of the Taylor/Perry record of Kentish Town bed to Heathrow plane seat in 52 minutes (including packing), but perhaps we’ll be in adjacent photos in the 2008 edition of the Guiness Book of World Records.

I jump on the Dalla Dalla bus and head towards Stone Town. There are only eight people on the bus (a far cry from Arusha), but I am the only one not wearing a kufe. The stronger arab influence here sinks in further as on my walk through the narrow winding alleys to the hostel I pass a school in the middle of an Islamic chanting session.

The architecture here is as interesting as the history of the island. A major trading port for the entirety of it’s civilized history, the island has fallen under the control of various empires (Arab, British, Portuguese) during its existence, and the various cultures are reflected in the historic streets and buildings. It makes for an interesting walk from the bus stop to the hostel, passing bustling bazaars, mosques and grand colonial houses, along with the aforementioned Islamic school, and I already feel like I made the right choice in opting to take some time out from teaching for a short holiday.

I spend the afternoon exploring the Lonely Planet’s recommended attractions. Very interesting and all, but after a couple of hours it begins to feel like a bit of a chore so I decide, against the advice of the guide book, to engage in some banter with the local hawkers and touts (flexing my Kiswahili muscles as a form of defense against their offers of tours, hotels, meals and weed).

However, one of these conversations proves fruitful. During one such broken Swahili session I’m shown a passenger list for the following day’s bus ride to Nungwi which includes the names of two fellow O’Kanes. I decide to take it as a sign and cancel my plans to head east to Paje and Bejuu and book a place on the bus going north to Nungwi instead with the hopes of meeting some distant relatives.

I return to the hostel room happy with my afternoon’s exploits and read the paper while waiting to see if anyone else turns up in the dorm room. After reading the paper cover to cover I decide that it looks unlikely that anyone will show up and head out to grab a drink at the Lonely Planet’s recommended hot spots.

There are a couple of places that sound great. A “restaurant/bar with a veranda overlooking the sea that attracts locals and travelers alike”, and a club recommended for all night dancing. I flick to the front page for the editor’s pic and really can’t imagine her getting down to some bongo flava but decide to place my trust in the LP and set off.

I soon realise the problem with buying an out-of-date guidebook, however, as both bars have been closed/relocated. With no recommended bars to go to, I head instead to the famed night market. Right on the seafront, the market provides the local fishermen, artists and craftsmen with a bustling arena in which to flaunt their various wares to the tourist population. However, the locals also turn out in droves to sample the day’s catches at dirt cheap prices, making for a lively atmosphere. I eat pretty much my fill of fresh lobster, calamari, tuna and scallops, along with a local delicacy called Zanzibar Pizza, for around $8.

As I sit there trying to digest my largest ever single intake of ocean dwellers, I get chatting to one of the local fisherman. He tells me that the main tourist nightlife spots are closed as it is low-season, but there is a local place further inland that is having an “MTV party” tonight. He manages to negotiate an early finish with his boss and we head off to the club.

I have no idea what to expect from this “MTV party” but when we turn up I am mightily impressed. The club is on a huge rooftop overlooking the rest of the town and there is also a huge swimming pool up there. Definitely not what I was expecting and perhaps I get a little carried away as the drinks go down rather quickly. All of a sudden it’s 3am and I’m feeling rather worse for wear (apologies to the people I called in the UK).

After a brief negotiation with one of the taxi drivers outside I decide that $4 is too much to pay for safe passage home (declaring it “Feki! Feki!“ which I have since learnt means “rip-off” in the fake/imitation product sense, rather than the extortionate pricing sense) and set off into the darkness on foot. Not a clever decision! The one thing I’ve been really good about this trip is walking alone at night as I’ve heard so many horror stories. However, despite the onset of hysterical paranoia halfway home as I wander along an unlit stretch of road hoping I am going the right way, I manage to get home safely.

In the morning, perhaps unsurprisingly, I wake up to a stinking hangover and a sense of disbelief that I decided to walk back last night. Lesson learned (for a few hours at least). At breakfast I meet Ping, a 46-year old traveller from Hong Kong. On his 25th wedding anniversary his wife asked him what he’d like as a present. His reply, “a year away from you”. In reality it was 12 months traveling round the world, but his deadpan delivery made me cough up a little cereal.

Ping informs me that he was recently held up at gunpoint while traveling through the Democratic Republic of Congo, and forced to access and hand over $10,000 to the local “police”. He’s therefore having to cut short his trip by four months, but he’s still probably the most positive and enthusiastic person I’ve met in the last two months. I take a leaf from Ping’s book and decide to stop beating myself up over my stupidity the night before.

We say our goodbyes and I head off to catch my bus to Nungwi. No sign of the O’Kanes, and the whole thing stinks of some kind of scam when they try to get me to lend them money for a tank of petrol, but it all works out in the end. I manage to find a beach bungalow, meet up with Calvin and Julia for some food (followed by drinks till 6:30am), and generally spend the rest of the week with a similar routine. A week of swimming, snorkeling, reading, eating, drinking and meeting people, with my time split between Nungwi and Kendra, and I am (just about) rejuvenated for my final couple of weeks of teaching.