Zanzibar

Zanzibar offered a welcome change of pace after Dar es Salaam.

In Stone Town we wandered among Arabs, Africans, and tourists through a maze of stone alleyways. The island is almost 100 percent Muslim and it seemed like every woman was tall, thin and beautiful, draped in colorful silk sarongs or burkas. Men were more casual, sometimes wearing a Muslim cap (what are they called?) with western clothes. Rooftop restaurants served curry dishes that paid tribute to Zanzibar’s distinction as one of the Spice Islands. The mournful call to player sounded five times a day, and we bumped into countless mosques. Western influence seems to have degraded the magical charm Zanzibar is known for, but it was still an amazing place. Unfortunately very expensive, though. We climbed six flights of winding stairs to our little room in the cheapest hostel available: 50 bucks for two twin beds, a tiny fan, and a cold shower down the hall, adorned with dead bugs.

Sultan's palace, turned museum

Every night crowds gathered in a crowded plaza on the waterfront for a pretty incredible market of street food. About a hundred tables showcased freshly made (and cheap!) snacks. Most popular were grilled skewers of meat, lobster, shrimp, chicken hearts, squid, and octopus. There was also shwarma and something called Zanzibar pizza, which involves meat, egg and mayonnaise and tastes surprisingly similar to a baja gordita from Taco Bell. TK had several of these, of course. Stalks of sugar cane were fed through a grinder to make a sweet drink. After one or two “nice” dinners (how could I pass up Ethiopian), we got real and went for the street food every night.

On New Year’s Eve we befriended two Americans on the roof of our hostel and found a bar/restaurant/hookah lounge that looked somewhat lively. Muslims aren’t exactly wild partiers. This beach-front bar was full of people at least, and bottles of overpriced champagne. The DJ wouldn’t interrupt the music (Tina Turner – “What’s love got to do with it”) for a midnight countdown, but we celebrated on our own. A little later a dance party materialized and it was just my kind of dance party: Bee Gees, Madonna, Michael Jackson, and a group of nerdy guys eager to dance badly with me. They were like Arabic Steve Urkels, with wide dorky smiles, pants belted above the navel, and flailing dance moves. And they were shorter than me. TK mostly lingered by the bar and laughed at me.

The next day we moved across the island to the eastern side, where you go to sit on the beach and do not much else.

Jack fruit tree at the spice plantation

On our last day we did what all tourists do in Zanzibar, and went on a spice tour. It was surprisingly cool. We visited a spice plantation, which was basically a food forest where every plant produced a spice or fruit. They were using all the permaculture techniques we’ve been involved in: diverse crops, companion planting, mulching, composting. Chickens roamed freely to control weeds. As we walked, the guides cut us a variety of samples: black, red, green, and white peppercorns, ginger, coffee, chocolate, jack fruit, lychee, cloves, cinnamon, cardamom, red and yellow curry, and turmeric.

At the end of the tour they took us to a cave where slaves were once hidden, and then to the nicest beach we’ve seen in Africa. Tropical beaches don’t jump to mind when I picture Muslim Africa, and it seemed discordant even to those living there. Some men wore their Muslim caps into the ocean, and a few burka-clad women sat on the sand.  The beach was pretty empty though, even though it was very close to Stone Town and a beautiful sunny day. I felt whorish again, in a bikini, but there was a whole group of us heathen tourists, so I used the other white girls as a shield from the leers of young men sitting in the shade, and slipped into the ocean.

Next stop: Kenya.