BootsnAll Travel Network



Shifty types

Tanzania, June 1984
I had been trying to get a ship to Zanzibar for three days and still not managed to secure a ticket. For the third time in as many days I walked to the Zanzibar Shipping Company, a green building near the Kariakoo market. It was not yet eight in the morning so I found somewhere to have a coffee and a pipe; on my two previous visits the ticket counters had been closed for at least an hour after my arrival. However when I walked across just before nine they were not only open but under siege and the queue that had formed was at least 100m long.

I found my place in the queue and practised patience. Men and women stood in separate queues and the old adage of ‘Ladies first’ was often adhered to, so I might get served in time to meet a friend for lunch at noon. By ten to twelve I was only 3m away from the counter — when the shutter was slammed down.

Assuming that the staff had gone for lunch, I resigned myself to missing my appointment. I could not risk giving up my place in the queue. One hour later the shutters opened again — briefly. When I reached the top of the queue, I was told that the tickets had sold out. A man whose sisters were due to visit relatives in Zanzibar and who were among the last to get tickets invited me for a curry and consoled me. “Come back early tomorrow morning,” he soothed: “the ship is not due to sail until twelve and I am sure something can be arranged”.

The next morning luck was not with me. I had said good-bye to the friendly Red Cross lady who had let me stay in her flat and just started to walk in the direction of the harbour when one of my rucksack straps snapped. As I bent down to fix it a tropical shower drenched me within seconds. I ran for cover under a roof and pondered that it wasn’t going to be my day. By the time I got to the harbour it was 7:30 and the place was inundated. There were no tickets, not even on the black market where the price had trebbled. Depressed I turned towards the exit-gate. Once again thick curtains of rain started to lash down. I ran for cover and one of the people sheltering with me told me to go back to the harbour and ask around the smaller vessels and Dhows.

I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of this before. I had hitchhiked into the Ngorongoro Crater and across the Serengeti — why not across the sea to Zanzibar?

The dhows and smaller vessels were behind ‘Gate 2’ a few 100m further from the main gate. It was heavily guarded. As I was about to step through a sharp voice bellowed: “Stop!”.
I tried to explain that I just wanted to nip across to ask about boats to Zanzibar but the officer kept shaking his head. Eventually I realised that he did not understand English. My Swahili was nowhere near sufficient to communicate so I sat down in front of the gate and got on with writing my notes, hoping that somebody passed who might be able to help. Eventually I spotted a group of men in business suits and walked over to ask them to help me out. One of them came with me whereupon the officer let us pass at once, without even waiting for an explanation. The man even walked up to the ship with me and spoke to the captain but not even he was able to help me get a ticket. Instead he suggested I meet him later for lunch; maybe he would be able to arrange something. He introduced himself as Phil and shook my hand.

Phil waited for me at a coffee bar near the harbour at one o’clock, looking uncomfortably out of place in his suit and sunglasses.
“I don’t think we should stay here, Baby, it’s full of shifty types,” he said.
We went to an upmarket place in the city centre where he noticably relaxed. I regarded him curiously. Shifty types? In the place where I had my morning coffee for the last three days? It was him who called me “Baby” and hid his face behind a pair of mirror shades.
“Where are we going now?” I asked after we had finished our meal. I had hoped he might have arranged a contact who might sell me a ticket.
“I thought to the beach. Up where the golf places are. it is a pleasant area to find somewhere to sit and talk.”
Sit and talk?
“If you don’t mind,” I said sternly: “I rather catch the bus to Kunduchi.”
I had found out that there was an inofficial campsite by a hotel on the beach in Kunduchi where all the travellers hung out. It was clear that I would be stuck for one or more nights and I could hardly knock on the door of the nice Red Cross lady again.
“What is it with you? Do you think I want something from you?” Phil asked.
“My mother taught me not to trust men who wear sunglasses and refer to others as ‘shifty’,” I said.
Phil laughed and took off his shades. He had gleaming black eyes framed by long lashes.
“You don’t trust me? Do you think a man from Tanzania would attack you?”
“I have no doubt. You have to be careful wherever you are.”
“I’m sorry,” he said and looked crestfallen.

We went to a nearby juice bar. I could see that Phil was bothered that I hadn’t trusted him.
“But why do you talk about shady types in coffee bars? Why do you wear sunglasses? I have to assume you are a gangster!”
“You haven’t been in town for long. If you stay a bit longer you will notice that the police often walk into bars and coffeeshops to arrest people without ID.”
“It it a crime not to have any ID?”
“These people have no work. If they stay in town, they start to steal. They have to go back to the country and work on the fields.”
“And the sunglasses?”
“I wear them to hide behind,” Phil said, suddenly coy: “I can’t stand it if people look directly at me.”
I had not expected that.

“How about your ticket?” he deftly changed the subject.
I suggested we return to the harbour and ask around the smaller vessels. The very first captain we talked to was nice and confirmed that he was sailing to Zanzibar but he had to finalise his cargo arrangements. “Come back tomorrow, about nine.”
Phil walked me to the bus stop. He suggested I should come and visit him some time; he had a wife and two babies at home he would love to introduce me to.

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