Makonde wisdom on Zanzibar Island
I woke up early the next morning for my third long-travel-day in a row. I was told to be waiting for the bus by 7, so I woke up at 6, packed and sat in the bus staging area (an open area surrounded by shops). I used the morning to study a little of Swahili, starting with the numbers – the most important thing to know of any language. I also learned the word for eggs – mayai (pronounced “my eye”), thanks to the little boy with the raspy voice screaming it repeatedly in an effort to sell his boiled goods. Buses came and went, and I was quick to learn that all of the buses headed to Dar es Salaam were starting in the town I had left the afternoon before…so much for the head start I was looking for.
A few hours of sitting in the bus terminal and one bus pulled in with no markings on it other than the word “INTERNET” plastered across the front, above the windshield. I heard a woman say the name of the company that matched the one I was looking for, so enquired to see if it was my bus; sure enough, it was. (I don’t know how I would have known it if I hadn’t overheard that lady.) As I talked with the conductor to get on the bus, who appears behind me but Tweedledum and Tweedledee. I chatted with them briefly, but was relieved to learn they were not on my bus.
Finally (after over 2 hours of waiting) I was on the bus and on the way to Dar es Salaam. It was a long, long way on a bad, bad road. One of the worst roads I have been on for such a long stretch of time. Tanzania seems to be plagued with awful roads; I couldn’t help but curse them for not putting my $100 visa-fee-donation to better use (not to mention the mass amounts of money they charge for national park entry fees, etc.) I was just not happy with Tanzania. I managed to sleep a bit along the way, all while breathing in large amounts of dust and getting thrown so high in the air that I actually hit my head on the luggage rack above.
I made it to Dar es Salaam, somewhat excited to be in a large city and all the modern conveniences that usually come with one. I arrived just before dusk, got a taxi, and became slightly nervous when he was driving me down dark alleys – away from anything that could be the city center. I soon realized that those dark alleys were major roads and the whole town was afflicted by a power outage. Out from the darkness appeared the hotel I had chosen – obviously equipped with a generator. Luckily for me, too, nice hot water showers.
The generator ran out of juice soon after my shower, so I found myself in darkness again. Dinner (a very welcome Indian-style curry) was by wind-blown candlelight, and bedtime was early. Early to bed and early to rise – I was up at the crack of dawn, ready for a quick morning of exploring Dar es Salaam before taking the ferry to Zanzibar. Looking forward to a second hot-water/great-pressure shower, I realized I had too much of a good thing: the water was so hot I couldn’t stand under it. No shower for me.
Most tourists don’t seem to like Dar es Salaam. I did. What a variety of people – Muslim women with their heads and faces covered, men with their Muslim hats (sorry I don’t know the name of them), a fairly significant colorfully-dressed Indian population, and a bit of Western-influence as well. The noise of the city was bewildering, particularly after spending so much time in quiet villages. Added to the standard city clamor was the endless noise of power generators. Dar es Salaam (and Tanzania at that) has a major problem with electricity. The power is off during the day from 6am to 6pm (can you say major working hours?) Little shops have deisel generators running on the street; major corporations (banks, governmental institutions, etc.) have large, permanent, silent generators installed outside the building. I fail to understand how Tanzania’s largest city and business center manages to get anything done.
I left most of my luggage in Dar es Salaam, taking only a small bag with me to Zanzibar; I was quite pleased with my light load. I was somewhat less than pleased to run into Tweedledee on the ferry (sans Tweedledum, who had made his way home to Italy), although he was fairly benign on his own. A few hours later, the ferry was pulling up to Zanzibar Sea Port and the famous “beach boys” were crowding around the ferry, waiting to pounce on fresh meat. The beach boys are self-appointed guides who notoriously rip tourists off, sometimes helping them, sometimes creating unnecessary chaos in their lives. Money earned is often used for basic sustenance or, perhaps, substance abuse. It was my goal to avoid them and to definitely not lose money to them.
I ran off the ferry (uh…after standing in a crowd of pushy people all hoping to squeeze through the door at the same time), through immigration (I don’t know why they even bother), and into Stone Town. The most memorable first impression was watching women clad in black, covered from head to toe, with only their eyes showing. It was indeed a very conservative Muslim place, different from the relatively-liberal Mozambicans (even the Muslim population.)
Stone town (also known as Zanzibar, and is the biggest town on Zanzibar Island) is a maze of small alley-type streets that gobble up unsuspecting tourists and spit them out where they least expect it. Somehow I found a hotel, put down my things, and walked around. I did get lost, but not inside the town – I think I started out lost from the beginning, never found my way to the town (even though I was already in it), and wandered along the coast, passing lots of interesting old buildings (a hospital with separate entrances for men and women, for example), and finding the location of the big Eid al-Fitr celebration that would be taking place the next day.
At night I had a wonderfully delicious and cheap meal at the Forodhani Gardens market, where they cook up the catches of the day; tables overflow with mounds of lobster, squid, various types of fish, vegetables, and locally-made breads. Another favorite is the Zanzibar Pizza, kind-of a pizza, kind-of not, but good none-the-less.
At the market, I met a friend from the hotel (a Zanzibar native in Stone Town for Eid al-Fitr), who took me to a local watering hole. My favorite character was a over-excited Makonde man who excitedly rambled jibberish to everyone. (The Makondes are from northern Mozambique and southern Tanzania, are notoriously aggressive, but are most famous for their beautiful, intricate wood carvings.) Locals didn’t understand him; I tried some Portuguese with him, but that didn’t work, although I did get a reaction from him when I mentioned the dance they do. In the end, everyone agreed he was crazy (and drunk)…except me. I decided his jibberish was probably too sophisticated for any of us to understand, his important message mind-boggling…and here he was, having traveled all the way from his little village to Zanzibar Island, spouting off his wisdom to a bunch of half-wits who could never understand a word of it.
Tags: Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, Zanzibar, Tag Index
Tania
March 31st, 2007 at 12:10 am
“men with their Muslim hats (sorry I don’t know the name of them)”
It’s called ‘barghashia’
Used to be worn by Sultan Barghash from Asia, hence the name ‘bargh-asia’. He was a famous Sultana in Zanzibar (call it Zenji).