Zanzibar, Zanzibar,
You can’t get there in a car.
It’s too far to Zanzibar…

An Australian schoolteacher from Dar es Salaam, Tanzania taught me that song the day before I caught a ferry to Zanzibar Island. The ferry was a smell-o-rama of unwashed bodies, old fish and diesel fuel. But it brought me to the prismatic wonders of Stone Town: a faded gem dominated by grand Arabic buildings with European verandas, and a clock tower that literally turned back time.

At first I thought the clock atop the “House of Wonders” was six hours slow, because it was set to “Swahili Time.” In Swahili culture, the day begins at 12:00 a.m. I was not only in a faraway place; I’d entered a dimension in which time flowed differently. Zanzibar was imbued with the mysterious mood of the past and the convergence of many cultures, and although many people speak English, the Spice Islands told me many things that language cannot tell.

I spent four days lost in Stone Town, the location of my hotel a constant mystery. It was as if some prankster kept moving it. When I asked for directions, invariably someone would tell me to go “straight, straight,” and two minutes later I’d hit a dead end. Other times, I left the waterfront to walk inland, and no matter how hard I tried to maintain a straight course through the winding, narrow, unnamed streets, I’d end up back at the waterfront. The streets were too narrow for cars, but I constantly pressed myself against walls to avoid bicycles and motorbikes.

Stone Town gets its name from the old buildings, made with a mixture of coral limestone, lime and decayed rock. Some have heavy wooden doors with large brass spikes, a tradition from India, where spikes once protected doors from being battered by elephants. The buildings blend Indian and Arabic styles, from Zanzibar’s days as a major trading port and exporter of slaves and spices, ruled by Sultans in the 18th and 19th centuries. Today, most of the buildings are rundown, with rusty tin roofs, and it takes imagination to see past the dirt and detritus to picture the town’s former glory.

Stone Town gets its name from the old buildings, made with coral limestone, lime and decayed rock.

Zanzibar’s people are still a mix of Arabs, Indians and African tribes. The culture is Muslim. But, although women wear a kerchief called a “kilemba” and long dresses with pants, seeing a face or ankle exposed is not a crime. On the other hand, I politely refrained from wearing shorts, lest the local people consider me “naked.”

Zanzibar’s Muslim women wear a kerchiefs called a “kilemba.”

Tours are big business in Zanzibar, and I chose several. The site of the Old Slave Market is now an Anglican Cathedral, but it’s still possible to see the cells where slaves were once held, now the basement of Saint Monica’s Hostel. About 50 men, and 75 women and children were squeezed into two tiny rooms, each only about eight-by-five feet. “They were like sardines in a tin,” our guide said. Many died of suffocation before they ever made it to the selling block. On the other end of the spectrum, the opulent Palace Museum was home to several Sultans until 1964, and its antique furniture includes the competing styles of the last Sultan’s two wives.

The living held more interest for me than the dead: in the Jozani forest I visited the island’s rare Red Colobus Monkeys. The monkeys were so used to visitors that they continued contentedly eating when our group came near. I stood within two feet of a male with a black-masked face, whose brown eyes gazed thoughtfully into mine, as if he, too, wondered at our similarities. The guide failed to tell us we were closer than allowed, and could have been bitten or passed on a human disease to the endangered animals. Oops.

Rare Red Colobus monkeys live in the Jozani Forest.

After about a week in Zanzibar, I flew to Pemba Island. Pemba is part of the Zanzibar Archipelago, but very different from Zanzibar Island. It’s smaller, greener and has almost no tourism infrastructure, which can make it difficult to get around. But there’s also less cynicism toward tourists. Pemba’s people, mostly farmers and fishermen, were among the friendliest I’ve ever met.

At the Swahili Divers Guesthouse, guests gathered on the deck each evening just to watch the sunset. By night, thousands of frogs created an unbelievable symphony, punctuated by the child-like cries of bush babies.

Our guesthouse group went snorkeling at Misali Island’s coral reef, where the underwater safari rivaled the variety of the Serengeti: puffer fish, spotted trunkfish, unicorn fish, giant clams, an electric ray… I saw my first Lion Fish, a poisonous species whose outlandish mane gave the loud message, “Stay away or else.”

I also explored Pemba alone by bicycle, practicing Swahili greetings along the way. In Swahili, a greeting can last several minutes, and exchanging seemingly go-nowhere pleasantries is an indispensable social custom. My limited vocabulary drew giggles, but it still smoothed the way when asking to take a photo or requesting help…

WRONG APPROACH:
Excuse me, where is Makoba Beach?

RIGHT APPROACH:
- Hello
- Hello
- How are you?
- Fine, thank you, and you?
- Lovely. How’s it going?
- Cool.
- Excuse me, please, where is Makoba Beach?

If you know someone, it can go on endlessly:
- And how are your children?
- And how is your farm?

Children were less formal. Nearly every child who saw me jumped up and down, laughing and shouting “Mzungu! Mzungu! Mzungu!” Mzungu means “white person.” This isn’t a Swahili insult, simply the amused recognition of a foreigner.

Nearly every child called me “Mzungu!” (white person)

When I stopped to rest, about a dozen children crowded around. I greeted them and asked their names. This question produced few names but many giggles. For some 20 minutes they alternately giggled or stared in silence. When I rode off, they ran behind me, pushing me up the hill, laughing.

I was a celebrity just because of the pale hue of my skin. It was strange to think that this notoriety would disappear as soon as I returned to the United States, Mzungu Alice going back through the looking glass.

I finally found Makoba Beach, a secluded cove surrounded by low cliffs. The tide was out, and so was swimming. But it was a serene place to relax, as I contemplated the gift I’d received from the Spice Islands—the knowledge that a truly friendly hello takes time, and that much can be said with laughter.

Tags: by Cara Lopez Lee

This entry was posted on Tuesday, May 12th, 2009 at 6 pm and is filed under Africa, Monthly Trek. You can leave a response.