Friday, December 21 – Sunset Bungalows, North Zanzibar

We join the flock of wazungu tromping to the trough. Mooo. Stupid white people. We must look like fools. Sign your name. Order your eggs by number. 1=fried, 2=boiled, 3=scrambled, 4=omelet. Three pieces of fruit. 2 pieces of toast. Everyone’s serving looks the same. Africafe instant coffee. A BIT of a let down after all the fresh local food in Stone Town. We are glad we bought our own fruit along the way. A white couple at the next table ask where we got the mango and papaya and are outwardly disappointed to learn that it was no where near here. We stroll south down the beach. More hotels. More wazungu. African employees. We are used to being approach by ‘solicitors’ by now. ‘You want spice tour? Massage? Snorkel cruise? Buy my crafts?’. Two Masaai say ‘Jambo’. I smile but say nothing. Brian confidently responds, ‘Habari!’ to which they respond, ‘Nzuri’, followed by “Mombo”/ “Poa”. I’m so proud of Brian. He has done a much better job of internalizing the Swahili niceties. I just keep saying, ‘Jambo’ or nothing at all and then get embarrassed. The Masaai boys are young and classic. Melodic jewelry around their necks, layers of beads at wrist and ankle, polished wooden walking sticks, finely braided long hair pulled back off slender dark faces. They each have long daggers stuck in their belts. Tall and fine boned. I am curious. Fascinated. The cover of National Geographic standing in front of me saying hello. I want to ask my questions. We stroll together, the four of us. One of them speaks broken but clear English if I concentrate. He asks us questions about our cities. Our climate. Our occupations. Our travel experience so far. I am glad he is so curious about us. I take a chance and am immediately reinforced. My carefully phrased questions are answered one by one. They come from outside Arusha. Attended school as only as children. Their father raises cattle. They don’t like fish and are surprised when they learn it is a favorite for me. What kind of fish do you have? Brian explains about salmon and trout. Tuna but not the same species. Their father is not happy they are here. They have each been given cattle. Why don’t you want to stay home? Their father cannot understand their desire to see new things. They are both here because they want to be. Their employer is good to them. They get fair wages and a place to sleep. They are both night watchmen at a resort down the line. They like the wazungu here and the Tanzanians who also work here but think the Zanzibari people are ‘lazy’. Don’t know how to work. They introduce themselves as Samuel and Paulo. Obviously not their given names but ones adopted more recently. I am unable to determine their real names. Samuel asks coyly about our social ‘rules’, “Are there black people where we live?’ To Brian, “If you were not married would it be OK with you to marry someone black?” I get the impression he is trying to glean what his chances would be of finding a white wife. I don’t ask. He smiles and nods happily when we both agree that it doesn’t matter to us. “It’s what’s inside a person that is most important”, Brian explains. We caution that not everyone in the US feels this way. Samuel suggests we walk back. Along the way he starts singing. He teaches me the song. He and I sing together. He is obviously pleased. “You are Masaai!”, he jokes. I am obviously pleased at well. High five. Clasped hands. I am so glad to have met him. He starts speaking in a falsetto voice. I ask him why. ‘Low voice scares wazungu’. He acts out running away, cringing. Then laughs. He says people respond better to the high voice. He likes to talk to people. He is very curious. I’ve just lived the dream. Moving to better understanding of another. Not feeling so self-conscious or embarrassed. We agree to meet again tomorrow. “Asanti Sana”. We are both visibly happy.
A relaxing afternoon. Pictures downloads in our cool rooms. Napping. Processing. Eventually, Brian and I walk to a tiny café we spotted on the drive in. No wazungu. Only Africans. Real food. We are welcomed. Fish curry. Fresh baked beans. Rice. Orange Fanta from a bottle opaque with refill lines. The air is hot. Inside the open-face plastered shelter is even hotter. No breeze. We chat up the ‘server’ (a term I use loosely here because I didn’t’ realize he actually worked here for most of our conversation). He is from Moshi on the mainland. His is not happy he is here. He came here because he needed the work. A different perspective shared openly. He doesn’t appear to resent the white people here though he works in a café that caters mostly to the local workers. I get the feeling our presence here is unusual. I’m so appreciative that we are so accepted. Welcomed. These are such good people.
Bill and Will find us after a day on the ocean diving. Will orders fish and chips. It turns out to be Barracuda served whole. He eats heartily. I can hardly believe this is the same conservative eater I left home with.
Children in grubby clothes walk by, singing. They are smiling and laughing. It is a holiday. Still Idi. No school. The celebration will last 2 more days. Trucks go by one by one piled with sand. Pineapple. Tourists. The bumpy dirt road is very busy.
We close the day with a rousing game of beach volleyball, the net placed precariously close to the diner’s at the Bikini Restaurant. We are soon joined by a Caucasian family from Zimbabwe who turn out to be as brilliant at beach volleyball as we are. We cheer when a volley lasts more than two exchanges. We all end up in the ocean (about 50 meters away) for a late night dip after having worked up quite a sweat. Laughing and soaked, we retire to our cool Bungalows.

Thursday, December 20 – Sunset Bungalows at Kendwa Rocks

Brian and I walk the streets of Stone Town in the early morning light. Our friend, Said, is still sitting on the stoop outside. Night watchman. 12 hour shift. Friendly and polite. We say
our goodbyes as he will be undoubtedly be gone when we return. We are leaving Stone Town today.
It is Idi, a Muslim holiday. Families are strolling to the mosques, dressed in their finest. A young Muslim man sees us watching and voluntarily takes the time to explain what is happening. Idi is a celebration, which happens after Ramadan and coincides with the pilgrimage many take each year to Mecca in the Holy Land. After prayers today, he tells us, everyone will meet at the fields along to waterfront for a feast. There will be much visiting and a present for each child. Everyone will be wearing his or her best. Though it is a Muslim holiday, I notice that there are many Indian families also dressed up lavishly and strolling the streets. Idi is four days of no school and no work for most. Reason enough to celebrate.
Back at The Clove and all packed up. Our taxi arrives right on time. Another arrangement made by email before I left home. We travel the same road we took north toward the spice farms. We stop for fresh fruit at a roadside stand. Will and Kristin amuse the many children living there by taking photos and sharing the results. An experience for all.





Beautiful, perfect smiles. Laughing eyes. The bright colors of fine dress clothes. A lucky moment. Back in the van we travel on. The driving is again white knuckle. Wide eyes. No restraint. A stop at a spice farm for more vanilla and saffron. Bill drives a hard bargain. ‘Not good quality. Your prices are too high’. He is right. A vendor gets in the van with us and directs us to another farm where the saffron is pristine. We buy all they offer. 1500TSH/bag.
Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride continues. A rolled van down a bank prompts Kristin to request more caution from our driver. He obliges her for about 5 minutes. The land we travel past becomes more arid. Clay brick and thatched-roof huts. Classic. Cliché. Real. Electric wires string them together. I take it in. I think about all we are learning. I am proud that we are all able to move past the stereotypes and form a new understanding of people different from ourselves. We have all commented on how exceedingly friendly everyone has been. We have been welcomed without question by so many people. The population of Zanzibar is 90% Muslim. I love the realization that this is now what my association with ‘Muslim’ will be. Will appears to have had similar thoughts based on his comments about the people here. Age 15. A life-changing experience for us all.
We are amazed when we arrive in tact to The Sunset Bungalows at Kendwa Rocks. We are not prepared for the abundance of wazungus (white people) here. The only local people we see are the employees. We all notice and comment on the change in atmosphere. A far cry from the joyous hubbub of Stone Town. The guests here are quiet and look somber. Serious. Privileged. I am embarrassed to be one of them. The staff does not seem too happy either. This worries me. I want to ask them if this is all OK with them. I don’t want to be associated with the other guests but I am by color and station.
Our dwellings are classic huts in the sand off the beach. Tall beds. Mosquito netted. Air Conditioned. You’ve got to be kidding! It feels great, I must admit. It is quite hot outside.



We eat lunch at the ‘Sunset Restaurant and Bikini Bar’. No modesty here. Such contrast. Guests in scanty swimsuits eating their lunch. It is odd to see so much skin after spending 5 days surrounded by people in long all-concealing robes.




These Beach cabana's are simply amazing. They are constructed with small diameter logs that are often lashed together. Some have amazing trusses that span great distances, some are two stories. they are within 100 yards of the water and seem to have been around for a while, Must not get to many storms.






Bill and Will show their new documentation and arrange a dive. Brian and I walk up the beach. It is unreal. Deep blue depths. Turquoise shoreline. White sugar sand. It is breathtaking. Masaai people stroll along. They look like props. Traditional dress complete with long walking sticks. Abundant jewelry. How did they get to Zanzibar? I thought they were from the Serengeti. Do they want to be here? What do they do here? Pose for pictures? Are they real?
Along the shore a bluff reaches down. Slightly overhung. Lava? No, coral. The whole island is ‘built’ on it. The incoming tide prevents us from going around the point. Back near our huts, we grab our snorkel gear and test the water. Choppy waves limit visibility. Our buddy fish have already found us! We eat again at the Sunset. The curry is good but the prices are high. There are other eateries along the line I want to sample. Relax. Enjoy the beach.

Wednesday, December 19 – Indian Ocean Dhow trip

Snorkel gear in hand, we join the boys to witness the final dive of their training. With a group of around 15, we motored of the beach at Stone Town in a modified dhow – a wooden boat featuring a mix of old and new. Motor and sail. Carved wooden trunk holding scuba gear. Nylon rope affixed to a tree-trunk mast. We cruise to Bawi Island (privately owned, a beach lined with thatched huts). The group aboard cheers as our divers drop backward off the rail. They head for deeper water. We don our masks and wetsuits (to help ward of stings from jellyfish) and take the plunge ourselves. We are required to stay near our guide who heads us in the opposite direction from our divers. No underwater pictures for them. Bummer. The water is bathtub warm. Most fish I see look familiar but the coral is like none we see in Hawaii. Amorphous shapes and 50’s colors. Line green, baby blue, soft orange. We are quickly joined by ‘buddy’ fish. Bright yellow fish with black bands. Strangely attracted to us. Seeking protection beneath our dark suited shapes. They share our entire experience. Brian and I each ‘have’ one. Back aboard, we motor south to a tiny sandy atoll. A dream. A scene from someone else’s movie.





Turquoise water breaking white against pure sugar sand. The boat is run aground purposely to allow for an easy splash to shore. We disembark to a tropical lunch served on platters in the sand. Mangos and bananas. Samosas and egg rolls. Delectable fish cakes. Too much! The luxury is embarrassing. We play in the waves. Bill and Will board the boat which leaves us to take them on their last dive. Snorkel from the windward side. It’s a bit choppy but we enjoy ourselves. Kristin spots a Hawksbill Turtle. A young one that flippers away along the sandy bottom. We watch it go. Brian, Kristin and I are the last ones out of the water. The others in the group are lounging in the sun. The boat returns with smiling faces. The divers have completed their final dive and are now just a signature away from being certified. A celebratory cannonball off the side as the boat glides to shore. They did it! Once again Will has ‘experiencing face’.



We eat our afternoon meal at Armoire Mia – a restaurant complete with smiling Italian sitting by the front door to greet us and usher us in. Great tuna penne. Wine secretly poured into Sprite bottles and brought to our table. The waiter shares that the buildings owner is Muslim and does not condone drinking on his property. We can’t image Italian food without wine so we join in the deception, drinking our wine out of water glasses. A pristine view from our table on the terrace. The Indian Ocean. Dhows drifting by. A toast to the newest PADI-certified divers.
We spend the evening on the terrace at The Clove. Drinking Safari and Kilimanjaro Beer. Reminiscing. Speculating. Processing. Will checks ‘My space’ on Bill’s laptop and discovers Tira is logged on. Happy day! I have no idea when he went to bed. He was still typing away when the rest of us said goodnight.

Tuesday, December 18 - Coco de Mara, Slave Market

Back to class for B and W. To the streets for K, C, and B. A woman in a burka holding hands with a toddler wearing a snap up cowboy shirt. A young girl standing in front of a dress shop longingly looking in. Rows of dresses are hanging from the ceiling. An old man blind with cataracts. Long poles holding up tall walls. At Old Fort we connect with the dressmaker. Everyone holds up kikois so I can try mine on. I decide to keep wearing it. Lunch at Coco de Mare. ‘Pili pili Crab’ for me. Described in the menu as ‘fresh crab sautéed in garlic, chili and Zanzibar spices, fresh from the farm’. I’ve been there! Crab claws in hot curry sauce with pilau rice. TSH5000. I eat with my fingers. I’m in heaven. Cold Tusker Beer. Earlier I commented about seeing ‘Club Sandwich’ on the menu. “Are you kidding? Who would order a club sandwich in a restaurant like this?” Moments later, the server presents a club sandwich to a New Zealander (? - best guess based on accent) sitting across the way. I am particularly humored when the guy who ordered it comments loudly, “You call this a club sandwich?” Apparently, British pub food isn’t what one should order when in a Zanzibari restaurant. Who’d have guessed?



B and W are finishing up as we arrive at One Ocean. They’ve both passed their tests with 90% scores. Only tomorrow’s dive remains. They eat in the restaurant at The Tembo Hotel where they have been pool diving. Brian, Kristin and I get to swim in the pool while they eat. Borrowed luxury. The place is swank.

We walk in single file down the narrow streets. Big bundles of wood, bags of charcoal, timber being carved into elaborate beds. The end result of the destruction of the forest. A way of life for the wood workers. They are masters of their craft. We come to the church that sits on site of the old slave market. Bill arranges for a tour. I feverishly take notes as our guide, Christopher, recounts the horrors of an African’s life once captured. A tiny stone holding room with tall, thin slots as the only source of air. A ceiling that necessitates crouching. Chains. A deep trough runs down the middle of the stone room. At high tide, it carries away the sewage. The tiny room is stifling with the 6 of us in it. People died here from starvation or heat or sadness. This was the room for mothers and older children. Most babies were killed. ‘Useless’. The room feels the way it looks. Oppressive. Deeply sad. Crying. I sit and stare. I can barely imagine the fear. The disbelief. Trying to feel what the people here must have felt crushes my heart. I blink back tears as I listen to Christopher. Many people were tricked into slavery by their captors. Chiefs from the villages were given gifts and told the people who went would be given good jobs and were going ‘off to a better life’. The people who didn’t get to go were often jealous. Reality soon presented itself when the ‘workers’ were soon chained together and forced to march for days and hundreds of miles to get to this place. Little hope of ever finding their village or their people again even if they were to escape. Some tribes captured and sold members of neighboring tribes. Villages tried to defend themselves. People lived in fear everywhere. Some committed suicide rather than face slavery.

We walk outside to the auction site. There is a whipping tree where slaves were beaten and their ‘toughness’ judged based on whether they cried out. Those able to ‘take it’ were sold for the highest prices. A rectangular pit in the ground holds sculptured people in shackles. This is where the slaves were sold. It is too much. I cry openly. “It’s so awful”. Christopher puts his arms around me in comfort. “I’m sorry,” he says. HE is sorry. So ironic. I can hardly stand it. Singing. I realize there are school children right next door and they are singing. They are lining up to go inside after recess. They smile and dance as they sing their way in, the auction yard visible from their playground. The people here seem to have moved on. Incredible.

We visit the church built by released slaves under the protection of the Missionaries who came after the British forced an end to the open slave market in the 1880’s. The famous Dr. Livingstone is given deserved credit here as being responsible for the end of the open slave trade. He first saw the slaves being marched out of the jungle near Ujiji, went back to England and appealed to the British magistrate which sent in war ships to defeat the Arab sultan who ruled Zanzibar. The African people who had been brought here as slaves, now released had nowhere to go now that they were freed. They came from dozens of different tribes and did not know how to get back to their people. The Catholic missionaries taught them carpentry skills and took great care of them. The church is beautiful and hopeful. There is a marker in front of the pulpit where the ‘whipping tree’ once stood. The slave trade went ‘underground’ until 1907. I realize that many of the people here in Stone Town must be the descendants of all those released, homeless, slaves. Lives horrifically interrupted.




Our tour of Stone Town continues through the fish market. Still reeling from the Slave Market experience, I’m in a bit of a fog. The fish market is certainly an experience for the senses. It smells as one would expect an unrefridgerated fish market to smell. We move through quickly and I ponder if this is where my crab from my curry at lunch came from. Probably. As my stomach has not protested anything I’ve eaten so far, I’ve decided that the fish here must be ‘fresh enough’. It sure doesn’t look it from the outside.



We tour the Arab palaces and the House of Wonder. I’m slowing grasping the history of the Island. It was under Arab rule for decades. They built elaborate palaces here and along the coast outside of town. This palace was built in 1846. This island has gone from tribal rule in the 1400’s to the Portuguese who allegedly showed the tribal chief a mirror and gave him gifts. He was so impressed that he turned over possession of the island to them and they ruled here until the 17th century when the Arabs took it from the Portuguese in battle. Eleven different sultans ruled here until the British took control and the island became a British protectorate (that’s why the current money is still called shillings). The British gave the island back to the Arabs in the early 1960 but the local people staged a revolution in 1964 and won their independence. Christopher was a young boy then but remembers the riots in the streets and the assassination of the islands first president. It was this man who gets credit for the amazing cultural tolerance now evident on Zanzibar. He arranged forced marriages between men and women from all the religions and sects represented (Buddhist, Hindu, Christian, Muslim – Sunni and Shiites). He reasoned that if there were family connections between all the different ethnicities and religions, the people would be forced to get along. The strategy seems to have worked. Prior to his decreed, Arabs lived in certain houses and Indians lived in others (you can tell by the shape of the doors). Now anyone can live anywhere and the island has enjoyed relative peace for decades. I am amazed this was happening when I was a young child. I forget that Tanzania is such a young country.
Christopher is a wealth of knowledge about history and current affairs. I wish we could talk longer. I take notes but know I have missed dates and gotten details wrong. Bill points out that I can Google it all later. Oh, yeah. Such a weird world we live in!

Most people here (Christopher says 95%) are Muslim, converted by their Arab rulers. We talk later about the irony in that. It does seem odd that a people would choose to practice the religion of their oppressors after they regained their independence. The indigenous people of this island once had their own form of religion and worship. I wonder if that is practiced any more. I need to look up Voodoo on Google.
Will heads home. The rest of us go for Indian food. The first real Indian food of my life I realize after I get a taste. I savor the flavors and the presentation. All eaten with our right hands, communal bowls shared. Two Indian children eat French fries with ketchup at the table next to us. The grass is always greener. We walk home and find Will outside sitting on the stoop chatting with Said (the night watchman who sits outside The Clove from 7:00pm until 7:00am every night). He and Will seem to enjoy each other’s company. Bill and I join them. Said is learning English and Will wants to learn Swahili. Said has brought an English to Swahili dictionary he is using to teach himself the language. We offer gifts of glow-in-the-dark bracelets to passing children. The word gets out and soon our offerings are gone. I say goodnight.

Monday, December 17 – Stone Town, Spice Tour

Awake at dawn writing on the terrace. The call to prayer sounding. The sounds of chickens and sweeping. Few people are on the streets when I look down. Bill and Will are up studying. Off they go for their first ocean dive. Brian, Kristin and I plan our day. Zanzibar Coffee House, Cultural Arts Center, Spice Tour scheduled at noon, meet up with the boys. Maps in hand we head out. The going is slow because there is so much stopping and looking. I discover the fun of holding my digital camera at my side and taking pictures surreptitiously. Not bad. I don’t want to disrespect or offend but I want to record what I’m seeing. Too much to just remember. Many, many Muslims. Burqas. Flowing material. Bright colors. Saris. Bindis, Smiles. Eyes of babies peering out around mother’s arms. Barely visible. Blending in with the fabric layers. The coffee house isn’t open yet. We find the cultural center. Not open either but the Hamani Bath House is. Persian Baths from the 1700’s. Pools for bathing and swimming. Steam room. Massage room. Laundry service while you bath. Showers and toilets. Long channels where water used to run in and under the floor. A luxury spa by any standard. Things haven’t changed so much. The Persian Baths were used by the wealthy. Sultans and their families. Long since closed. Too bad. Our guide shows us piles of coins as we are leaving. We select coins representing eras in Zanzibar history. Used by Arabs in the 1800’s. Then the British. Finally independence.



The Cultural Center across the street opens. It is run by a collective of women who make goods and market them there in an effort to gain self-sufficiency. I buy a 2nd journal as my first is already filling fast. Many of the items for sale are made from recycled materials like rice sacks made into handbags. A woman sits on mats sewing. At the coffee house we sit just inside the door and take photos of people walking by. Many cultures and styles represented. A woman in a burqa talking on a cell phone. Bike rider delivering newspapers. Another picking up coffee. Four large boxes tied onto the bike rack. Caucasians (a few). Soccer shirt. Kangas. Collared shirt with dress pants. We drink spiced coffee and eat slices of chocolate and ginger cake. On the way back to the Clove we stop and bargain for woven floor mats. An older woman and her daughter are making and selling them. We introduce ourselves. Fatima is the daughter. The mother is sitting on the floor weaving long strips together. We buy two and Kristin buys one. TSH300,000. We meet our taxi at the hotel and are whisked out of town. Again quick images flash by. Brahmas pulling carts. Loaded buses full of people and good. Lumber piled against trees. We talk about deforestation. These small trees were undoubtedly logged from the quickly diminishing forests. Row of shops. Bicycles and motorbikes. Fancy beach estates overlooking the ocean. Built by Arabs. Schools with children in uniforms. The Spice Farms. Our guide is young and personable. He scrunches leaves in his hands and offers us a sample. “What is it?”, he quizzes. We guess most of the time. We get about 70% right between the three of us. We learn but can we retain? We get stumped on tumeric. A root we want to call ginger. Some plants smell like you would expect – pepper (dried black when young and white when red and older). The pulp surrounding it is first sweet then bitter. Ginger. An easy one. Immature cloves (an aphrodisiac along with cardamom). “Cloves are the king of spices. Nutmeg the queen.” We recognize lemongrass but not the iodine tree. The sap turns white when rubbed on our guide’s skin. Vanilla beans grow on vines like green beans. Chickens skulk by and our guide jokes ‘spicy chickens’. Bark is sliced off a tree. Cinnamon! Roots that smell like citronella. We collect samples in vessels made of leaves by our guide’s assistant. He climbs trees to collect fruits – star fruit, grapefruit, mango, papaya, avocado. Pineapples grow on classic stalks. An aloe plant as tall as I am. We crush and smell. It is a tour with just the three of us and our guides through the forest. The specimens are scattered throughout. It is shady. Cool. Chocolate beans! Nutmeg in large pods like passion fruit. Immature mace surrounds the nut. A curry plant? We’re not sure we understand. It is never quite clear. I’ve already forgotten so much! We are presented with woven bracelets and rings. The assistant is making them out of grasses as we proceed. Woven necklace in the shape of a frog. Saffron! Many of the plants were originally imported decades ago from dozens of countries. There is a pod. We guess rambuton. We are wrong. ‘Lipstick’ plant. Our guide smears it on his lips and they turn orange. Bright smile and eyes. Kristin and I apply it to our cheeks. Brian guesses Taro and is correct when we walk upon a large leaved plant. Cassava, too. There are many plants here that we recognize from Hawaii, where Brian’s mother lives. Our guide, Sahaid, talks about the seeds being brought in by foreigners determined to create familiarity. This island is an eclectic mix of cultures. I hope to learn/retain more about it. We see quinine, the ‘plant of 40 uses’. Treats malaria, is an antiseptic, calms the stomach, gin and tonics. We laugh. We are encouraged to buy. Big surprise! There is a long table covered with small bags containing everything we have seen. Hot curry mix catches my eye. Tanduri Masala. I chat with a vendor about tanduri shrimp. ‘Grilled. Olive oil.’ We agree it’s making us hungry. “Are you happy?”, Sahaid asks as we drive away. “Oh, Yes!” was our unanimous reply.

We meet Bill and Will back at The Clove. We eat at the roof top terrace of Archipelago Café. Grilled tuna. Fresh grapefruit juice. We withdraw another TSH3000,000. We are relieved to find a day/night that works with our MasterCard as we have discovered few places take it here. We’ve also been experiencing confusion with our pre-2000 US notes. Some places here won’t take them, either. Too many counterfeit bills have apparently been passed. About half the money we brought is older than 2000. We are bummed and not sure what we’ll do when our ‘good money’ runs out. We are glad we wired money ahead to Kigoma.




Bill negotiates a trade for me at a shop – my Addidas backpack for a cloth/basket sling. Just what I was hoping to do. At Old Fort our dressmaker has left for the day. We’ll have to return tomorrow to pick up our dresses. We stroll back along the waterfront. Will buys a necklace for his girlfriend, Tira, from a Masaai man. Brian gets to see all the barbequed seafood I couldn’t eat yesterday. We take photos. There are beautiful children sitting in the grass eating mangos. Just a few blocks back to our hotel. We are all tired and go to bed early.

The Clove Hotel

December 16 – Stone Town, The Old Fort

5:00am. Call to prayer. We can hear the recitation sounding over Stone Town from a nearby Mosque. Most of the people of Zanzibar are Muslim. This will be our ‘wake up’ every morning we’ve been told. Will and I find our nightlights and read. We are wide-awake. Brian gets up and seems recovered. Yeah! I knew it. Breakfast of fresh fruit and local jam and bread on the terrace. Will and Bill head for scuba lessons. Kristin, Brian and I hit the streets. We gaze at doors. Stone Town is famous for them. Huge, elaborately carved wooden doors, some with spikes to keep elephants (which don’t live on Zanzibar) from ramming them. We learn that these doors were inspired by Indian designs. The square doors are Zanzibari. Children are playing soccer with a worn out ball in the narrow street. A young boy (age 10?) runs into me, looks up and smiles. I smile back and pat his shoulder. Touching Africa. It’s becoming real. We stroll down different streets from yesterday. Narrow and winding in all directions. I keep trying to remember the casual greeting Bill and Kristin taught us but my brain scrambles and I keep deferring to ‘Jambo’ (which we’ve learned is only used for tourists). Everyone says it to us as we go past. I marvel at Kristin as she chats people up in Swahili. People respond to us differently when they realize we are not all ignorant of their language. We work our way back toward city centre. Kristin and I recognize a street from yesterday. We lunch again at Old Fort. Lobster. At last! My sorrow from yesterday’s loss is relieved. My lobster is large and succulent and delicious. Grilled with a light curry sauce. Brian likes the painting we bought yesterday. The artist, Jabar, is painting another perspective. I ask more about his Japanese teacher. She was a volunteer who came to Zanzibar for only a short while to teach young people a marketable art. Jabar had been interested in drawing since childhood. He was born on Zanzibar to parents from the mainland who are no longer living. He doesn’t know where they came from precisely as they never were able to take him back to their villages. He signs his paintings ‘Jabar Nice’. We again watch him paint. He takes our canvas off the frame for us and rolls it in a cardboard tube now that it’s dry. We bargain for batiks from another shop and pick out a Tinga Tinga for Patty. The artist produces more small square ones so we have choices. Kristin describes in Swahili what we are looking for. We pick out one that is bright and not too complicated like the original Tinga Tinga’s (he was the artist that started this style of painting). Kristin and I admire a woman’s fabrics and I try on a dress. It is too small. I pick out material and the dressmaker leaves to make a dress for me and one for Kristin. TSH13,000 (about $12.00). I feel like I should give her more but Kristin says it’s fair. I could have a dress made in Kigoma for less. We walk to One Ocean and watch Bill and Will dive in the pool for the 1st time. Their faces intent. Brows knit in concentration. Looking related. We meet back at The Clove Hotel later. Will falls asleep so we leave him there. The four of us walk down the street to KiKude, the restaurant where Bill and Kristin celebrated their 1st anniversary. We relive the day for each other. I order prawns and am served a huge pile. A glass of South African wine. Not too shabby! I order another. I sleep well.