Jambo Zanzibar! (November 2016)

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Jambo Zanzibar!

At 4 AM, it's mind-boggling to see how many caravans of people with suitcases from all over enter the former kiss-and-ride zone at Brussels Airport. They all pass through the funnel of the channeled tent with pre-airport security. Heavily armed soldiers watch. Almost everyone is allowed through without a baggage check, unless you look suspicious. Read: Muslim.

The flight to Zanzibar at 6:20 AM is on a 737, eleven hours of flying including a one-hour technical stop (refueling and crew change) without leaving the plane in Hurghada, Egypt. Breathtaking to fly for a long time only over yellow and brown desert sand that later plunges into the sea without a trace of civilization. Yellow turns turquoise, then light to dark blue, dotted with islands, barren sandbanks above the water. Part two, another five hours, culminates as we follow the Nile and fly above Luxor to Aswan. Then on to Khartoum, Addis Ababa, Lake Victoria, Kilimanjaro, a massive black expanse with relatively little snow that rises above the clouds, Nairobi... arriving at 7:00 PM locally.

Then, after a chaotic madhouse where no one knows what or how, filling out paperwork, paying for a $50 visa, extensive security checks with fingerprint registration and a photo shoot, a quick twenty-minute taxi ($13) to Zanzibar City, more specifically Stone Town , the teeming and fascinating UNESCO World Heritage city.

Introduction: Exciting Zanzibar

Zanzibar is Hakuna Matata. Zanzibar is Africa meets the East.

Even in the murky history of sultans and slave trade. Zanzibar was its hub and market. The intersection of the two cultures is quintessentially Zanzibar. Beautiful and ugly. People, race, and color. Fauna and flora. A world apart.

We're staying at the Zenji Hotel, owned by a Dutch/Zanzibar couple, Anneloes and Mani (short for Suleihman). It's a modest, inexpensive place with few amenities. First, we walk through a bare restaurant, a few souvenirs, and then down a hallway into a small office, the reception desk.

Jeffrey, a scrawny Eddie Murphy clone, greets us with exuberant expression, explaining everything, sometimes making it difficult to understand, and when we ask something unexpected, it often turns out he's misunderstood. Just like everywhere else. But every time I pass him, it's an enthusiastic, vigorous handshake. It's Zenji's philosophy: offering people opportunities to learn and working only with their own products. Those with training already have that opportunity. More about this noble perspective can be found at zenjifoundation.com. 'Zenji' is the old Persian name for the original Black population. 'Bar' supposedly stands for coast. Hence, Zanzibar. But the endearing mistakes and misunderstandings are countless. Just like guaranteed getting lost, the lack of signs, signage, or the complete absence of traffic regulations. But... that's part of the fun, you have to think. Anyone who thinks differently must go to Benidorm. But it leads to funny situations. I asked if they could keep something of ours in their refrigerator. The idea was cold beer, if available, because it's a Muslim country. Jeffrey: "Like?" Me: "Huh, something we might buy." He: "Such like... a fish?" When they presented the room: "This is a room with working air conditioning." We had a quick bite there a few times. We never got, nor did they have, what we ordered, other than a simple veggie curry. No problem, hakuna matata. Yes, the Swahili song phrase from The Lion King for "don't worry," "don't get worked up" is practically the battle cry here.

But still, take the last day. Hilarious. Nella buys at their mini-boutique an African-decorated lamp for our daughter, who has just moved in with her partner. But she wants it in a somewhat gift-like wrapping, reminiscent of the hotel. Nobody understands. Owner Mani joins us. Luckily, because we ask for a test, but... it doesn't work at first. Afterwards, he says he'll pass on our package request. We wait half an hour, and they arrive with a kind of postal package of a faucet in a cardboard box secured with bungee cords. We give up. While we're packing, Nella decides to eliminate that oversized box and tuck the lamp between the clothes. Only to discover that the faucet is actually in there... Imagine...

Back to the romance.

Sleeping under a helicopter in a fairytale-like 1001-nights ebony bed with elegantly tied mosquito netting and pale yellow, faint colonial lights, quite got something... Next to the toilet is a small hose with a flush button, originally because certain Arabs don't use toilet paper, but now handy for cleaning. The high beds are reminiscent of colonial times when massive trunks were placed underneath. Although. After three days of sweat dripping from my chest, back, face... despite that coffee grinder in the sky, we see... what's that up there?

Hey, that looks like air conditioning? Hey, there's a remote control here.

Air conditioning for dummies, but everything becomes more livable... Receptionist Chris, who later takes tons of photos and selfies with me, always goes wild with enthusiasm. "Mr. Wiiiim!", a firm handshake, a pat on the back. All sorts of people hang around here every day; I have no idea what they're doing. But I seem to be popular. What a little happiness, zest for life, and foolishness can do. Let's remain jolly. They laugh themselves silly at my nonsense; they're just waiting for it. "Mister Wiiim, you aww crazy, man!"

Daytime, twilight, sunset, night: sparkling Zanzibar.

At five in the morning you hear the sung call to prayer, which I snooze through, comfortably half-awake, despite the morning light—we're close to the equator, so every day is light from about 6:30 a.m. to 6:30 p.m.—despite the vibrating, rising street noise...

The rooftop café, phew, is a relief and almost a prerequisite for enjoying a stay in this city. Most restaurants have one, sometimes with panoramic views of the sea or rooftops and rubbish. We also have breakfast there. Breakfast is the bare minimum, but I settle for the delicious hibiscus juice or the mango-and-something juice, the daily slice of watermelon, mini banana, and pineapple/papaya, a delicious espresso, of course, and some toast.

Karibu Stone Town

Central Market is a whirlwind of impressions. Impressively long bananas and all sorts of fruits, piled high for sale. Colourful women, veiled or draped, and the constantly approaching locals make it a feast for the eyes, ears, and nose.

Well, if you visit the fish market or the meat market, you need a strong stomach. The sloppily torn-together carcasses, so to speak, lying there are not exactly appetizing, especially not on those filthy stone, well, sort of concrete pits, infested with flies. And then, as everywhere else in the city, people lie in the most impossible positions in the most impossible places, sleeping, dozing, nodding off, if necessary right next to a halved, thick tuna or chunks of bone-in meat.

Later, on our way to the Anglican cathedral and the historic slave market (those must have been horrific times, pure inhumanity), we pass through the winding streets where literally everyone says "Karibu!" "Welcome (to my shop)".

Djambo, hello! And if we Westerners always seem a bit more stressed than the locals: pole, pole, take it easy. And the Hakuna Matatas are everywhere, all over the place. Quite a few smiles when you interact, even though there's work for an army of dentists... Some Muslim women are even quite coquettish, wearing headscarves covered in glitter and pearls and surprising djellabas. Others strut proudly, quite different from Arab countries. Although you also find the kind dressed in black and uniformed Muslim children, though they have a cute look together. No burqas, no burkinis. The natives here are generally slim to thin, though all very small in stature. Hardly any "fwat mommas" then. But after a while, you do discover ethnic diversity within that African population. So this seems like a diffuse and ambiguous society that advocates harmonious tolerance. An example.

The "papasi" are quite annoying. Their trick is to simply start talking to you, like, "Here you go... there you go..." Ignore them or clearly state: "No service needed, we will never pay."

Well, looking lost or unsure of what you want within that overflow of impulses acts like a magnet for Zanzibaris who then approach you. Unfortunately, that's difficult, because you're already lost and overwhelmed, so it's not easy, which means that if they persist, they can charge for their "service." Or take a commission on where they take you. Although the people are fundamentally friendly, quite polite, and helpful, it's still difficult to distinguish them from those trying to cash in, which is almost everyone in the city center.

Certain houses are enchanting, with high wooden staircases, some balustrades and balconies, and then, those high, somewhat clumsy, yet elegantly decorated fairytale beds. But in between, unfortunately, there are many rubbish dumps, ruinous voids, corrugated iron, and construction sites, and then suddenly... a door, what a door. A fascinatingly heavy gate, almost solid, dark brown-black wood, with carved decorations and sometimes impressive copper nails and ornaments. They have a patent on that here. A decent photographer can only go wild for a few days on this aspect. And you constantly want to shout: "Open sesame!" The effect of a cross between Indian, Arab, and African seems to be the essence of this culture. Also striking: no dogs anywhere, but small, white-and-beige kittens everywhere. Strange. Although one of the safest cities in Africa (being caught robbing or stealing is a risk of being lynched), there are still the traditional rip-off tricks. Bargaining is a brutal game you have to play here, as is keeping an overview.

Every travel guide says you'll inevitably get lost in the old city. Not with this ex-scout, trained by azimuth, compass, and map, and with his—self-praise stinks—strong sense of direction. Quod non. It's absolutely true. The city maps are also practically worthless, sometimes completely wrong. We also see the Old Dispensary, the Old Custom House, and the Big Tree, an exceptionally sprawling Indian banyan tree. Then there's the Palace Museum (Beit al-Sahel), home of various sultans, where we're introduced to the history of the evolving lifestyles and living styles of those Arab rulers. An Ali Baba feeling. The man standing next to the ticket office who spontaneously starts guiding us turns out, of course, not to be included in the ticket price. But we let it be and finally give him a dollar. Sim sala bim .

Forodhani Gardens is dominated by the landmark The House of Wonders (Beit al-Ajaib), a colonial structure full of balconies and with a clocktower and two cannons in front. Now a nationally important museum of history and culture. And next to it is the old Omani Fort (Ngome Kongwe). The park is centrally located along the waterfront and is an oasis of tranquility after the souk-like experience of the labyrinthine city center. In the evening, it transforms into a bustling, dimly lit street food market with an incredible selection of just about anything you can put on a stick. Seafood, chicken, meat, all sorts of unrecognizable things. You constantly have to explain what it is. Not easy in this darkness. We only recognize octopus. Also, garlic bread and chapatis. It's a particularly attractive, unique experience, where you're lured into every stall like a tourist. And of course, it's impossible not to look like one.

Unfortunately, it's evolving into a tourist rip-off. Natives and visitors mingle effortlessly in this teeming atmosphere, but we Westerners definitely pay more. Every piece indicated is pre-cooked and has an absurdly low price in Tsh (Tanzanian shillings). Everything is then thrown on a plate and reheated on the barbecue. You don't have to pay upfront, they say. And... no problem, we'll take care of that later. You sit somewhere, fumbling with paper plates and plastic knives and forks, and then you're treated to an exorbitant price. Go ahead. We did it differently. When our food arrived, we asked the price before receiving it, which turned out not to be their intention. But we saw two Swedish women completely baffled after hearing 49,000 shillings for what should have been 10,000 at most. No idea how it ended.

This is how it went with us. They absolutely insisted on getting 35,000 Tsh for the last offer for two fully loaded portions. You have to understand that an average, tasty curry with meat or fish and vegetables, or a decent main course in a posh restaurant, doesn't exceed 20,000 Tsh, about $10 (€9), and this market's official lure is the incredibly low price. We argue back and forth, slightly indignant. Meanwhile, all sorts of "specialists" arrive. We make it clear that we don't want to give more than 30,000, count the notes twice, and slip them over. A bit of confusion, and then the recipient says: "Yes, but it should be 30,000, not 25,000." He shows us the amount, counting it. Aha. The pigeon trick. With all Chinese people, but not with this one. I say: that note is already in your pocket or with a friend; we grab our bags and walk away. No one comes after us. Afterwards we discover that most of the food, supposedly under pieces of chapati, is not there.

A different and better evening. A modest highlight is the tropical sunset from the rooftop terrace of The Africa House, a delightful blend of Arabic influences and Zanzibari designs. The ebony chests with brass decorations are pure Ali Baba-esque masterpieces. As the oldest English club in East Africa, you can still feel the spirit of colonial Old Albion here. Images of British diplomats with pointed mustaches, lords drinking gin and tonics playing bridge, cricket, golf, hockey, or tennis, with a billiard hall, library, club chairs, and smoking lounge.

We spend our last day reading, writing, and packing. It also rains quite heavily for a few hours. November is the "mini" rainy season. We have a delicious meal at the beautiful historic building, The House of Spices, though difficult to find in the narrow Stone Town alleys and streets where not even a car can fit. The most oppressive part is getting out again due to the complete lack of street lighting...

The Tea House (Emerson on Hurumzi)

A magnificent (literally) highlight. Hidden in the maze behind the House of Wonders lies this hotel and restaurant, The Tea House. Authentic colonial style, fantastic, almost ceremonial bedrooms with impressive beds and furnished with fine woodwork, arabesques, multicolored curtains, and antique armchairs, even with a bath set in the floor, half-open air. Balustrades, flowers, and beautiful decorations everywhere. The toilet closes with a heavy sliding bar, almost like a medieval castle. The stairs are heavy, steep, and exhausting. On the fourth floor, the roof towers over the city, with 360° views of Stone Town, the harbor, the sea, and the islands in the distance. Shoes are off and you sit at low tables on carpets against low cushions on the floor. A completely Persian interior. This is truly "se laisser dépayser."

The panorama encompasses mosque minarets (otherwise, the fifty or so Islamic prayer houses are invisible), a Hindu temple, a church, and everywhere, the plaintive Koranic chanting blaring through loudspeakers. But what a wonderful atmosphere! There's a strong breeze, and for a moment, it rains. Everything is open at the sides, but no worries; the sail flaps are rolled down for a while. The service is excellent, with black waiters in long robes explaining everything and letting us wash our hands from a pitcher of delicious rosewater. I ate the most delicious veggie burger ever, and Nella had tiger prawns with grilled pineapple, pilau rice, and vegetables. Unforgettable.

On the beach: Sandy Zanzibar.

From a lounge chair at the Tembo hotel, I look out over the low tide and countless boats with names like Blue Wave, Red Monkey, Equator, Kisa Nini, Jambo, and—now it's getting worse—Gladiator and... Facebook.com, Ladies Free, and Mr. Bean. Simple, narrow, dilapidated long boats with hollow hoods and rudimentary wooden benches, which lie on the beach at low tide. The dhows, however, are graceful, radiating photogenic African romance at dusk and sunset with their elegantly stretched triangular sails.

I order a Kilimanjaro, the best beer here, better than Safari and Serengeti, but all pilsner. For those who enjoy alcohol (the temptation of fruit cocktails with a shot of whatever is strong), it's a real ordeal here. Even the most Westernized hotel chains apply this Muslim rule. A few flout it, but you can't find out unless you're there yourself. Beach bar The Livingstone (named after the famous Scottish explorer who washed ashore here) actually sells more beer than anywhere else. Despite the Westerners—I always prefer a "local" atmosphere—it's quite a lovely place, especially thanks to the shady mkungu trees with large, delightfully thick, clustered leaves. I encounter the only Belgians I've seen in a week: a group of 14, almost all singles, who spent three weeks exploring mostly lesser-known African reserves via Joker.

But I don't want to eat here. I want curries and local food, not variations on Western fast food, although—credit where credit is due—there isn't a single international or other fast food joint to be found in Zanzibar. Kudos!

Of course, there are quite a few beach peddlers around, wearing plastic sunglasses, scarves or sarongs, beads, and faux coral jewelry, but they clearly see that whoever's here has been there for a few days. The difference is finding "fresh" tourists, because they also know that after two days, the soup is over, having been approached hundreds of times for their turn. Hakuna matata remains the attention-seeking cry you hear everywhere.

Did Disney Heritage know that, when they made the song of the same name famous? It becomes painful, however, when a half-toothless, shabby-looking Rastafarian with a long goatee immediately treats us to this response after offering us some miserable beaded necklaces: "You don't want to buy my things, despite my misery. It is because I'm black. I am poor, so you don't want me." Of course, I'm momentarily taken aback, until I hear the same refrain from some Poles a few tables away. And as I have noticed everywhere in recent years: Eastern Europeans are making serious progress in catching up.

From five o'clock onwards, the local boys come out at the high tide line. Just like everywhere else in the world, they try to outdo each other in their performances. The hand-walking and double somersaults, running from beach to sea with a stunt jump into the surf, are sensational. These muscular, athletic black boys try to outdo each other with all sorts of variations.

A variety of people stroll by. The Maasai are the most beautiful, especially in their traditional dress with a long dagger at their side. They are tall, slim, and look and walk with extreme pride.

At sunset, hundreds of tiny birds hang in the hibiscus trees, chattering and chirping to their heart's content. Wonderful.

Tourists for Tortoises.

The boat trip to Prison Island with our "captain" Tom is refreshing, a little over half an hour . Naturally, we first visit the giant tortoises, feed them, avoid the droppings, and watch them mate, which involves some rather silly sounds. And, hey, it doesn't take very long. Their history as an endangered species is touching. There used to be a few thousand here, and yet people managed to steal hundreds for their shells. In tempore non suspecto (1983), I once ate a giant turtle steak for $1 in Belize. Surprisingly delicious. Now I'm embarrassed to think about it. These tortoises are the largest in the world after those in the Galapagos, found only here, and they normally live to be about 100 years old. We see their eggs, their newborn baby turtles.

Then it's off to prison, which never happened, but a quarantine camp for yellow fever cases. And then, via that enormous stretch of white powdery sand, back onto the boat to continue snorkeling among the corals. Always an experience, the types of coral, the depths and heights, and those ever-enchanting, ever-changing, multicolored tropical fish. It remains a fascinating world beneath the waterline in exotic regions. For a moment, they reach right up to my belly. I grab a beautiful piece of coral and it breaks off. I take it with me, even though it's probably forbidden. Anyway, after endless washing and wrapping in layers of plastic wrap, it still stinks terribly. Bye, coral.

Afterwards, while we were looking for lunch, we were approached about ten times. "Hi, I'm a captain, I have a boat. Wanna go to Prison Island?" Until we replied almost in unison: "We come FROM Prison Island! We are freeeee."

A spicy, rocky day trip.

I put together a trip that combined the spice tour element, the must-do excursion here, with a trip to the east coast, where we had booked weeks in advance at the exceptionally unique restaurant, The Rock. Explaining how special this rock is, with its stairs leading to the only building that encloses this sea-eroded rock, is easier done by simply looking at photos. Unique at both low and high tide.

But first, the spicy bit. We learn all about herbs and spices. The cultivation, treatment, uses, and benefits of cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves (85% of the world's trade), cardamom, lemongrass, cocoa, vanilla, aloe vera, turmeric, ginger... We also taste the jackfruit, the largest tree fruit in the world, with a flavor somewhere between mango, papaya, and lychee. We sample dozens of fruits. Nella, who has intestinal cramps, is served a terribly strong clove-ginger tea as a remedy. A black assistant of our guide is painted red with a blossom from the lipstick tree, Hindu ball on her forehead and all. We smell incredibly strong, unrefined base perfumes from just about everything that grows here, including the main ingredient in Chanel 5. I rub fresh turmeric on my insect bites, five in a row on my inner arm (still not gone after six days). I take a fresh clove and nutmeg pod with me to dry at home.

Afterwards, we receive a machete-chopped coconut, crowns woven on the spot, even a tie, a pendant, a ring, a handbag, all made from palm leaves. We are crowned King and Queen of Spices, while a lithe boy climbs barefoot into a palm tree to sing and—forgive me—play the monkey. He sings hakuna matata, jambo, and so on.

Along the way, we stop at one of the island's biggest attractions, The Jozani Forest, best known for its baobabs, unique bird species, and other wildlife, especially the endangered red colobus monkeys. Unfortunately, we have little time, and it takes up a lot of money. We leave it at that to, and rightly so, enjoy the irresistibly pristine east coast beaches above Paje.

The Rock .

I ate a fresh fish carpaccio, essentially a ceviche with a heavenly coconut and lime flavor, surrounded by raw zucchini slices. Afterwards, I had grilled lobster with a fantastic, lightly smoky flavor. The prices were high by local standards, almost like a Belgian bistro, but the interior was larger and cozier than expected, with a lounge terrace. First, we were surrounded naked by powdery sand and potholes, and then by the rising blue (compare it to Mont Saint-Michel), which meant we had to take a boat back. I declared it the most special and romantic place I'd ever eaten. A unique and memorable highlight. We took loads of pictures and then drove back to the hotel. Our trip ran from 9 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. Perfect. It was warm, but a rickety taxi also had air conditioning if it left its windows open all day while driving.

Freddy Mercury

In the evening, we head to Mercury's bar, where everything revolves around the Queen singer, who was born here and isn't exactly popular with Muslims due to his promiscuity. The tide line at dusk and the jovial beach scene of playing and bathing boys, fishing boats, and other boats is perfect. They're one of the few in the immediate area (a ten-minute radius from our hotel) that serves beer and all sorts of alcohol. But the food, service, and Wi-Fi quality are abysmal. The restrooms are categorized as men's = king and women's = queen. What would Freddy Mercury have chosen?

Observations

Clothes... The rise of football kit. T-shirts, shorts, referencing all sorts of world-class teams. I haven't come across Club de France or Anderlecht yet. I wouldn't want to feed the people who will never fly wearing "Fly Emirates."

Hilarious, two women in a burqa (only an eye slit) taking a... selfie.

Poverty, but everyone has a cell phone, and even more so than here, they're constantly on it. Many simply sit for hours on a piece of stone, tapping away or making calls. To whom, about what? We're baffled. Hanging around, almost literally, dominates the daytime activity. Of course, there's that constant 30°C with high humidity. Sometimes I'm sweating profusely. Free Turkish bath. Exhausted peddlers start selling their wares from afar at the end of the day, dejectedly, while no one is watching. From then on, men start lying on their taxis, muttering almost inaudibly: "Taxi?"

Electricity is a problem here. In the evenings, there's very little light, which is normal in underdeveloped countries, but still, people like to see what they're eating. Taste and smell go hand in hand with color. It also has its own distinct charm. What's more, there's no bright neon or light pollution anywhere, and therefore... starry skies.

Actually, they're quite polite, hospitable, and tolerant people. I think we're distorting them (see below). An example. Just after arriving at the hotel on the fourth day, we hear a loud bang. A car collides with a truck. Instant traffic chaos, and there were already so many people. Consequently, the crowds become enormous. There's screaming, shouting, pushing, shoving—it's completely confusing. And... strangely, the police simply do nothing. We observe it all from the VIP lounge, which suddenly turns out to be our balcony. But after a while, a few people leave, and suddenly it seems over. No solutions were seen, no arrangements. After the frenzy, it fizzles out like a candle. The mountain has given birth...

Reflections

TripAdvisor is a terrible trip adviser. The inflation of reviews. Literally, every hotel, restaurant, or bar here has a series of TripAdvisor Awards of Excellence. And time and time again, it doesn't align with my opinion, plowed through in terms of travel experience.

Always bargain down. Do it for the fun of it. Not doing so negatively impacts the economy. If someone can earn a week's wages selling an overpriced trinket thanks to a stupid tourist, you can be sure it'll spread everywhere. As a result, everyone will speculate on it instead of dedicating their energy to constructively rebuilding the country. Short-term thinking. On the other hand, the pressure on tourists becomes so great that it risks becoming so annoying, as travel guides tell us, that they'll eventually stay away. Unfortunately, I've seen this assertion confirmed many times during my over fifty years of international travelling around.

More fun photos: https://www.flickr.com/photos/wimvanbesien/albums/72157660671697838/with/30814630942/