Spices, a slave chamber, and a $10 gamble
The next day brought Eid al-Fitr, the entire reason I had traveled so intensely for three days to get to Zanzibar. I spent the morning exploring Stone Town, navigating through the narrow alleyways, visiting old Sultans’ mansions, trying to determine which house was actually where Freddie Mercury was born, and admiring the locals celebrating their holiday. The women were dressed in beautiful, colorful new dresses, and the boys and men wore crisp, white long dress-like garments (called shalwar chamiss…or something like that.) The little girls were dressed in their new dresses as well, with their faces made up beautifully and every hair in place. Everyone was looking their best for this celebration to mark the end of the Ramadan fasting period.
I sat in the shade to get relief from the hot sun and enjoy a few oranges I bought from a local lady. As I watched life go on from my little perch against a city wall, I suddently noticed a familiar face as Oscar strolled down the street. We spent the day catching up on each other’s activities from the past month. At night, I joined him and his friends for the official Eid al-Fitr celebration, where they had food and drinks for sale, little carnival games and lotteries set up, toys for sale, and mini-discos spread throughout the fairgrounds. As it is a Muslim holiday, there was no beer for sale, and I can undoubtedly conclude that this was the defining point that made us lose interest in the festival, so we left in search of some.
Congestion in Stone Town was (almost) as bad as in-bound traffic on the Eden Expressway on a Friday evening during a snowstorm (oohhhh….the things from home that I don’t miss). Luckily, we were walking, although navigating around the cars in narrow streets posed a slight logistical challenge. We found our little watering hole, though (coincidentally, where I heard the Makonde wisdom the night before). We did a little bar/club hopping during the night, and it wasn’t long before it was way past my bedtime (although, not before an encore dance to Shakira’s Hips Don’t Lie – it’s not a night at the club if you don’t hear it…although it took me months to actually figure out that Shakira sang it.)
The next morning I was up and at ’em earlier than I wanted, but I was all signed up for the island’s most famous attraction, the Spice Tour. Zanzibar is known as Spice Island, mostly for the amount of cloves they grow on the island (supplying about 80% of the world’s cloves). Despite being tired from the night before, this was one of the best $10 tours I’ve had on my trip (along with the mines in Potosi, Bolivia). Being a plant lover, I was excited to learn about (and sample) all sorts of spices: cardamom, vanilla (it’s so expensive because each plant has to be fertilized by hand), nutmeg (which is the pit of a sort-of fruit), cinnamon (cinnamon sticks are just the bark of the tree), pepper (red, black, green, and white pepper are all the same, but the berry changes color depending on how long it is allowed to mature on the tree), different kinds of coloring agents, a soap berry (rub it in your hands with water and it suds up, cleaning your hands and leaving a nice, fruity smell), and of course, the famous clove tree. Apparently, cloves play a part in the taste of your Colgate toothpaste.
After a lovely lunch provided by some local ladies, we headed to see an underground slave chamber, where slaves used to be kept (illegally and, of course, in awful, crowded conditions). Zanzibar was a huge slave-trade center, and this particular chamber was used to house slaves after the practice was banned. It’s humbling to imagine the inhumane conditions and atrocities these people endured (or succumbed to) in the exact place you are now standing. It’s impossible to really know the horrors of the place…
The edge of the day (uh…being the depressing slave chamber and the lingering hangover) was taken off during the final stop on the tour – a beautiful beach with white sand and turquiose blue lukewarm water. We stayed long enough for me to soak myself in the water for a while, with the rest of the tour group waving me in when it was time to go. I would surely see more beaches on Zanzibar, though.
Back at the hotel, I talked with the friendly girl running the place regarding the next goal I had – renting a motorscooter (Vespa) and cruise around the island for a few days. Just as I discussed it, a guy walked in and overheard me talking about my plan. “I can get it for you, if you want.” I bargained him down to $15/day. “But the only problem is that I don’t have a license.” (Mine got stolen in the foam incident in Cochabamba, Bolivia.) I had read, though, that you could get a temporary one from the island traffic police, no worries. “Hakuna matata!” he said. (No problem in Swahili.) I can get one for you. Give me $10 to take care of it and I’ll meet you here in the morning. “Really? OK! Sure!” and I handed over the ten bucks.
After he left I looked at the girl working at the hotel. “What did I just do? Is he going to come back here? I just game him $10. Was that stupid? Who is he?” Her reply: “He’ll probably come back. He seems ok, but he talks a lot. Don’t trust people who talk too much. But, he’ll probably come. Don’t worry.”
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Tania