Zanzibar

Zanzibar. The Black Coast. Land of fresh vanilla pods and roasted coffee beans. Of dates and nuts and jellies. Of swanky Swahili, of both natural and man-made beauty.
As I walk off the ferry accompanied by Thomas, I feel the first lukewarm drops of rain land on my forehead. The rainy season has finally begun. After a day in Dar es Salaam where the heat is inescapable and there is little to do besides spending long hours waiting in shabby cabs to reach the hidden pockets of coolness and entertainment, I feel excited to be on holiday. I hope that it does not rain for Bram and Bjorn who have just arrived in Tanzania for a much needed break from the cold! I only crossed over with them for one night and one morning in Dar. The YWCA, where Thomas and I stayed, was overridden by the grandeur of the Kempinsky where we met up with them the day before. What exuberance! Is this really the same country where the average monthly household income is £28.60? (And that’s excluding rural agriculture which employs 80% of the workforce). Nonetheless we embrace the comfort and elegance and have a jolly time catching up with my friends. It feels surreal to see them out here. It feels just as surreal when two weeks later we find ourselves staying for two nights at the very same Kilimanjaro Hotel, courtesy of dear Bjorn!
We regain our balance on firm ground and perch on our heavy backpacks in Zanzibar we suddenly find ourselves swarmed by ‘official’ tour guides and agents ready to pack us into a minivan and transport us to the other side of the island. With a slight effort to keep our holiday moods untarnished we make it through the buzz and begin to make our own way through the maze of dilapidated stone architecture with Persian, Arabic and Indian elements. They are mostly terraced houses, strangely reminiscent of old European and Latin American colonial city centres.

Neglected yet highly populated alleys of picturesque buildings reveal fabric shops and fruit stalls. Hotels and private homes, and the odd coffee shop here and there. On the steps there are children and women selling grilled octopus tentacles and men cluster around the scattered bao boards or solar powered TVs concentrating on the games. My eye is caught by the ancient heavy wooden doors studded to perfection that glitter from corner to corner.

We reach the source of the strange mixed aroma of cardamom, fresh fish and spice that fills the streets. The market at Stone Town is unconsciously dirty and beautiful at the same time. There are old-fashioned dala-dalas stopping and starting all around it. We opt to cross the island the cheapest way possible and climb onto the right one. Soon we discover this is also going to be the most fun way to reach Uroa beach where we are going to meet up with the rest of our friends. Space does not get in the way of peoples’ hospitable nature. Our luggage is squeezed in and carried jointly by everyone’s laps. Once we get going the clever design of the taxi vans allows for plenty of air to flow through as we speed through lush jungle views. I can’t get enough of this adrenalin rush and as if I were 8, I turn my head to make sure all my hair gets messy and big. We are stopped by the traffic police on a couple of occasions during the hour’s drive and we learn that the guys who jump off just before these stops are cunningly doing so to keep the ticket master out of trouble for over packing the dala dala. They climb back on a few hundred metres after the top and business continues as normal.

Nick, Wendy and Spencer are waiting for us at a nice resort recently opened by a Swiss mother and daughter. Most of their masai employees are also (tipsy) guests and make for lively conversations while we sip our drinks that evening. We spend two days sun-freckling, digging our feet in the fluffy sand, feasting on fresh seafood platters and learning to play ‘celebrity’. The sand looks and feels like processed flour and the sunshine is unconditional. It is the first time I dip into this spectacular Indian Ocean. The water is calm and shallow for a few metres in, creating a band of turquoise glean. It is every bit as beautiful as in the glossy photos printed on honey mooners’ catalogues.

What I like about this place is that it is still a working beach. Fishermen and seaweed farmers abound, as do their sweet and cheeky kids who spend their free time teasing foreign passers by. I selfishly cross my fingers so tourists retain their novel aura for a long time to come.