Jenna Evans cruising on a Vespa
To my pleasant surprise, the man I gave the $10 to showed up the next morning on schedule, so I left with him to get my scooter. He hadn’t gotten the license, as I had hoped, but said he would take care of it that morning. We approached a few guys standing around a scooter, undoubtedly the one I would be taking. He told me to wait there while he went for my license. Completely baffled as to how he could get me a license without me being there, I started to argue with him. The guy with the scooter now wanted nothing to do with me, so we left.
I was getting increasingly mad…the guy still had my $10 and nothing was coming of it. I told him I was nervous about getting a license if I was driving around Zanzibar, and I wanted to make sure I had something official, so I wanted to go with him to the license office (or whatever it was). I asked him for my money back, which, of course, he wouldn’t give to me. Eventually, I uttered a choice 6-letter word that rhymes with sucker. He stopped dead in his tracks. “Did you say (something similar to Yuck Foo?)” “No,” and I clarified what I said. “Oh yeah? Oh yeah?!” and he left with my $10. Never use choice words for the beach boys.
Not to be discouraged, I headed to several police and traffic cop stations to try to get a license only to find out that I couldn’t get a Zanzibar license if I didn’t have my own license. It makes sense to me, but it was indeed contrary to everything I had read about the Zanzibar policy. Finally, I decided to go the mainstream route, and I looked up Ally Keys, described by the Lonely Planet as “a colorful character…not as disreputable as he looks and his bikes are safe.” When I got to his sales area (just some bikes along a wall), he actually had a sign that proudly repeated the exact words above. After some time negotiating prices, explaining my run-around trying to get a Zanzibar license and learning “the Zanzibar way of doing things” I was presented with everything I wanted: A nice Vespa, a Zanzibar driving permit, and a fake UK license, both identifying me as Ms. Jenna Evans. All I needed now was to learn how to ride the scooter.
Ally drove me through the narrow alleyways of Stone Town to an open field, where he gave me a short lesson and let me run the scooter around to learn. After a good hour or so, I was ready to head off on my own. One of his workers drove me to the edge of town so I didn’t have to deal with the traffic of Stone Town on my way out. We filled up with gas and headed out. When we were sufficiently out of town, he stopped, got off, and handed the bike to me, citing the following rules: “Don’t follow behind the minibuses…they stop quickly and often; whenever you pass anyone, anything, honk your horn; go slow, slow.” No worries…
And off I was, cruising at 15 mph on my scooter, tooting my little horn at everyone I passed, and never following behind the minibuses. It was a beautiful day, and the difficulties of the morning were far behind me as I cruised along with a goal of beautiful beaches ahead and a permanent smile on my face. Even with a helmet on and the wind past my face, I could still hear the groups of children screaming “MZUNGU!” and waving to me as I passed them on my bike. After a while, I got more comfortable with the bike, and sped it up just a little, getting nervous and excited at the same time.
I had the most basic of basic maps, and there were no signs indicating anywhere I wanted to go. Taking the island for smaller than it really is, I took a right when I decided it was probably time to take a right. I cruised through a nice forest, up a nice hill, and giving beautiful views of the island. The right turn took another right turn, and I was now headed back in the direction from where I had come. I took a left later and few other turns, and now was officially lost. But, I was still cruising and having fun, and there was plenty of time left in the day for me to find myself somewhere.
The busy asphalt roads turned to lonely dirt roads, and I got nervous at times being alone. The dirt roads turned into really rough rocky roads that most probably would have a hard time navigating on a mountain bike, let alone a Vespa. I was learning quickly. I finally found the eastern coast (having crossed the island from the west side), got my bearings and headed north, stopping for a cool beverage. It was now hot and I was worn out from navigating the roads…not to mention a sore butt by this time. I talked with the friendly restaurant owner, who gave me instructions on how to get to my desired destination. Luckily it was not too far away and the road was to get better soon.
Back on the road after a brief rest, I realized I was getting really tired. My joyride was wearing me down, and all I wanted now was a nice beach to relax on the rest of the day. I finally found the town I was looking for, and navigated through the streets to the guesthouse, waving to the scores of colorfully-dressed women on the road. As I approached the guesthouse, I slowed the bike down, and attempted to turn it around, as I had passed the entrance. The ground was all sand at this point, and the bike was significantly heavier than it feels when you’re cruising. Pushing with all my might to circle it around, the bike fell to the right slightly, slowly, but it was heavy enough that I couldn’t stop its momentum…as it neared the ground, I watched the right handle fall into a tree and swiftly snap off.
“Aggghhhh! Oh man!” I voiced out loud as some local women watched my misfortune. (Incidentally, women really only ride as passengers on scooters…I was quite an anomaly…I suppose as I normally am.) I picked up the bike, rolled it into the entrance of the guesthouse, head hung low, but glad to just be at my destination. I started to talk prices with the ladies of the guesthouse…somehow, the more I negotiated, the higher the prices went. It was useless, prices way above my budget and getting higher, so I left.
Luckily the handle that snapped off was not the gear shifter, but just the front brake, which I use very little anyway, for fear of flipping over the front of the bike. I got on and asked for the way to Nungwe, a touristy place I was trying to avoid, but the only reliable place I could now get to before sundown. The roads were good again, and I cruised, ignoring the “slow, slow” advice, probably hitting 30-35 mph (don’t laugh…it feels really fast!)
Finding Nungwe was a major milestone, but I was still left to find the guesthouse that had been recommended to me. With no signs to follow, I turned into residential area, garnering lots of stares and eventually attracting a huge crowd of women and children around me. “Nungwe Guesthouse” or “Nungwe Hoteli” in Swahili…both got blank stares. Uhhh….”Nungwe Guesthouse”. Nothing. “Hoteli. Nungwe Hoteli? Nungwe Guesthouse?” I was getting nowhere; finally a man walked up…after some repeating of the same, he started to walk me there. Tired and sore, I was anxious to arrive; he was dilly-dallying, running his hand along the sides of houses, and paying no regard to his chosen path and the fact that I had a heavy motorbike I was pushing around.
After arriving, I explained my handle issue to the guy running the guesthouse, so he took me to a bike repair shop. After a long time waiting, the only thing I could get was a black handle (mine was silver) that was at least twice the local price, plus an amazing sum for the labor of putting it on (something that I could easily do myself). I declined, determined to find another way that was cheaper and would not give evidence of what happened to Ally Keys when I returned the bike.
After cleaning myself up, I headed to get a cheap meal before surrendering myself to my bed. Who else did I run into, but Tweedledee. I was sort of relieved to talk to someone, although we were approached by lots of weird locals trying to talk ghetto to us or discuss their gastric maladies while we tried to eat our dinner. Tweedledee mentioned that he’d been to Chicago when he was living with an ex-girlfriend from Indiana. Apparently it was all a very bad relationship, she was a bit insane, and, wouldn’t you know, I was a spitting image of her. “Thanks, dude. I’m going to bed.”
Tags: Tanzania, Zanzibar, Tag Index
Tania
April 7th, 2007 at 8:09 pm
Wonderful storytelling! My butt is sore just reading your account, but my face is wind-whipped, my eyes are full of ocean, my ears hear the lilt and skip of Swahili, and I love every word you write. This is probably as close as I will ever come to riding a Vespa on Zanzibar, so I’m living every moment of it with you. I’ve been having a terrible day, and this really brightened me up. Thanks so much.