Jambo Tanzania - Part Three: Zanzibar!

The next two days in Dar-es-Salaam were a whirlwind. We spent quite a bit of time with Maa, showing her pictures of our trip so far and and some of the videos I had taken just before we left New York. She was awed especially by the amount of baraf (snow) that had fallen just a week before and complained that she felt cold, even though it was in the 80s outside and very humid. We visited Uncle Husein in the pharmacy that he worked in, then headed off to town. We really wanted to visit Bha Kasoo, our grandmother's brother, and at 100 in Islamic years (97 on the Julian calendar), the oldest member of the community. We visited Jess Opticals, where we met Iblo, our cousin, who offered to walk us to Bha Kasoo's flat about 3 blocks away.

Bha Kasoo was the same as we remembered him, tall and distinguished-looking. He couldn't see very well nor walk around like he used to, but he recognized us right away. He was many things, but senile was definitely not one of them. And his apartment was still neatly organized, but quieter than I remembered it last. He had outlived both his first and second wives (in succession) and his beloved parrot, Kasookoo, who I fed red chillies when he was still alive. After the usual introductory banter ("How are your mother and father? What are you studying? How long will you be in town?"), Adnaan and I asked him his secret to longevity. He mentioned three things. First, he said that for as long as he could, he walked every day and only took a car when long distances were involved. Second, his bloodline. While his and our grandmother's father was a member of the local Khoja community, their mother was a full-blooded Persian, who are well-known for their life spans. And lastly, he thanked God for allowing him to experience so much. The theme of inshaAllah (or "if God wills it") is ubiquitous among the community, and something I have come to appreciate. He also realized time was slowly slipping away, with his eyesight failing and his limited mobility. We bade him Khuda Hafiz and left him sitting his chair, cane by his side, light filtering through the billowing curtains toward his nearly sightless eyes, tended to by the mamas, but still having the resolve to persevere until it was his time.

Adnaan and I then went to the mosque for afternoon prayers, met a few more of our relatives who we had not seen the previous week, including Uncle Yasir, our youngest uncle at age 23. We caught a ride back with Uncle Baker and Suleimani, had lunch with Maa and then attempted to take an afternoon nap. I say attempted because I usually can't sleep for only a couple hours, and the humidity was really making things difficult for me. In the early evening, Adnaan went with Ammaar and Uncle Husein to the cemetery and mosque, while I went for a jog with Alijawad and Yasir. They were a jovial bunch, making fun of people while attempting to teach me Gujrati words. We walked past several landmarks, including the Movenpick Hotel, the Botanical Gardens, the State House, and the Fish Market. After the Gymkhana Swimming Club, we broke into a jog, passing the formerly littered Banda Beach on the right and Ocean Road to our left. As we approached Aga Khan Hospital, Yasir and I broke into a sprint, drawing stares from hawkers and dawdlers on the beach. Thus concluded my lone run for the month.

The next day, Uncle Zaffar, Adnaan and I bought our tickets on Sea Express II at the Port for our trip to Zanzibar, dodging brash touts and staring down potential pickpocketers. We rewarded ourselves with a bowl of mix and some kababs at Al Qaim. Later that afternoon, we spent some time with Uncle Minhaal, playing Wii golf and tennis. We went to bed early for our 7 a.m. departure to Zanzibar the next morning.

The two-hour journey to Zanzibar was uneventful, save for the selection of entertainment shown on the big screen in the cabin: "Rambo" and WWE Wrestling. There wasn't much to see outside, except for the two or three fishing boats we passed, so I entertained myself by watching the people on the boat. The locals were enjoying themselves watching the action on T.V., mimicking the moves of the wrestlers, while the mostly European tourists were laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. I went out for a little bit to get a breath of the salty sea breeze.

At long last the whitewashed and red- and tin-roofed skyline of the Zanzibar Stone Town pulled into view. The passengers scrambled for space on the stern; frequent riders itching to get off the boat and tourists angling for the best picture opportunity. After clearing customs and immigration (I daresay more civil than at the airport), we headed for the Shangani neighborhood, at the western edge of the town to look for a hotel to stay in. Zanzibar was in the midst of a two-month power outage and happened to be in the hottest part of summer too. After inquiring around whether there were lodgings powered by generators at night, we settled on Jambo Inn. We were apprehensive about the cost, but luckily Uncle Zaffar managed to secure a discount. We went down a hallway lined with doors intricately carved with various patterns and flora, in the traditional Zanzibari style to our room at the far end. It was huge, H-U-G-E! It was a former conference room converted into a bedroom with three 4-poster beds draped with mosquito nets, six ceiling fans, a flat screen TV, comfortable couches, and even came with our very own balcony overlooking the mangrove tree-lined beach and the deep blue Zanzibar Channel beyond. Of course, one of the first things we did was lie on the deck chairs outside and bask in the morning sun, letting the gentle breeze waft over us. Then we set out to explore the town.

Walking through the narrow, winding cobblestoned-lined alleys of the Stone Town, I get the strong sense that history happened here. These thoughts are no doubt fueled by my textbook readings, hearing the childhood stories of my parents, aunts, and uncles, and simply observing the two- and three-storied dwellings rising into the sky, windows lined with iron railings and wooden shutters of a bygone era. Then we are jerked back to modern-day reality by clanging bicycle bells and honking madmen zipping down the crowded alleyways on scooters.

Meandering through the little tributaries feeding into pedestrian arteries such as Soko Muhogo and Pipalwadi, we encouter men dressed in traditional sparkling white kanzus and embroidered kofias plying their wares or whiling away the hours before the Friday prayers. Even though it was only 10 a.m., our stomachs were growling, so we stopped by the nearest mix store we could find. Uncle Zaffar asked the women inside dressed in bui-buis for three bowls of mix, filled to the brim with potatoes and bhajias and topped with dollops of chutney. While finally pacifying our crying bellies, we watched some youngsters and oldsters listening to the highlights of the previous day's football ("soccer") matches while some schoolkids hopscotched their way home. Satiated, we strolled to the market, where we had some coconut juice and meat, purchased some vanilla sticks for Mom, and bought a spiky durian, the smelliest fruit known to man. We walked to Bustani, a family-owned oasis in the middle of an every-changing landscape. By this time, I was feeling uncomfortable and had to use the facilities pronto. Uncle Zaffar rushed to the office block next door to get the keys from Uncle Abdul, while I shifted around nervously, watching the metalworkers next to Bustani welding some pipes together. At last, Uncle Zaffar came back, and I flew through the wooden gates of Bustani, zoomed by the old faded tombstones, up the steep steps and into the house, startling the maid. Relief at last! Settling onto the loo, I looked around and noticed that the bucket of water had a minimal amount of water. The flush looked like it wouldn't work. Worst of all, there was no toilet paper on the roll. Damn! Turning on the faucet at the sink, I saw a little bit of water trickle out and then...nothing. Somehow, I managed to clean myself and wash up, but Uncle Abdul would not be happy to see the little gift I left for him when he got home.

With a sheepish grin crawling across my face, I went outside. Adnaan and Uncle Zaffar were trying to break open the durian by stepping on it with their sandals. After a successful attempt, they proceeded to eat the contents. After a few pieces, Adnaan started to gag, but managed to hold his stomach. We briefly met Uncle Abdul and then proceeded to the Nei Masjid for Friday Prayers. The elaborately carved internal prayer hall was about a century old, but it was obvious that globalization had dwindled its congregants, as they headed for greener pastures on the mainland and overseas. Adnaan and I quickly wrapped lungis over our shorts, performed ablutions, and joined the barely two rows of congregants to listen to the sermon (in Swahili), followed by prayers (in Arabic). Getting permission and keys from the caretaker, we climbed several flights of steep, narrow stairs to the top to get a glimpse of the Stone Town from above. It was quite a sight: red and tin roofs covering whitewashed buildings, alleyways shaded from the burning sun by overhanging banyan trees, the imposing Beit el Ajaib (House of Wonders - think the Courthouse in "Back to the Future"), the chipping plaster of the Hammamni Baths, the drab-looking government apartment buildings lining Karume Road, container ships and passenger ferries crowding the port, mothers accompanying frolicking children home, woodworkers sawing away in the courtyard of a house with no roof, European tourists taking pictures in a doorway, and kids kicking a football around on their impromptu cobblestone-lined pitch. Finally, it was time to go and we warily made our way to terra firma.

We stopped at Bakhresa and partook in some really sticky almond halwa and complimentary strong black kahawa, fed by Uncle Zaffar's hand like a robin feeds her hungry chicks. Being Friday, one of the employees stood at the door and gave free halwa to schoolchildren heading home. Stepping out, we saw Maasai men in traditional outfits, one with a pair of sunglasses perched atop his braided locks. Globalization, eh? By this time, we were feeling the effects of the sun and waking up early, so we headed back to the Jambo Inn to lay out on the balcony. Shortly after, Ammar arrived, having taken the afternoon boat since he had classes in the morning. We swam in the pool downstairs, where Adnaan glided through the water straight into the wall at the far side, breaking his nose. Holding a towel to his nose, he went back to the room, and we joined him shortly thereafter, briefly waking Uncle Zaffar from his deep afternoon slumber.

In the late afternoon, we met Uncle Abdul at the recently renovated Forodhani Gardens on the waterfront, in the shadow of Beit el Ajaib and flanked by the Omani Fort on one side and the Palace Museum on the other. We watched the food vendors setting up, ate Mohammed's mix, cheered on kids diving from the balustrade into the water, and admired the older youth displaying their capoeira and acrobatic skills.

Then, at the appointed hour, tourists and natives came to a standstill and pointed their eyes west and watched the sun disappear below the horizon. Then the electric streetlights, kerosene lanterns, and barbecue grills came alive and the pungent smell of freshly cooked delights wafted over Forodhani Gardens. The stars came out of the spire of the House of Wonders and we gobbled up skewers of cubed chicken, mutton, and greasy french fries, topped off by chocolate and pineaple "pizza" from Zanzibar Pizza, all washed down with sugar cane juice. Then Uncle Abdul treated us to some delectable gelato at an ice cream store on the waterfront in Shangani, and then it was time to go to sleep.

The next day, after enjoying a light but delicious continental breakfast while chasing bees from the plate of jam, we went on a walking tour of the Stone Town. We bought some t-shirts near the Jambo Inn, looked up at the spires of the Old Roman Catholic Church, hunted around for doors with the rare animal carvings (we found 2 of the 3 that Uncle Abdul mentioned to us), admired bright khangas proclaiming "Hongera Obama" ("Congratulations Obama"), dodged two-wheeled and two-legged traffic, took a "tour" of the Hammamni Baths with its echos of its steam-filled past for 2 dollars, heard the sing-song chorus of pupils to the Saturday school teacher's Quranic instructions, took pictures of three boys in kanzus and kofias on a couch, depsite their protests: "No, no, NO!" "Yes, yes, YES," retorted the lady walking behind us. We quickly visited Aunty Zehra in the confusing maze of Darajani before visiting the fish market. We admired the intricate decorations on the facade of the Aga Khan Jamat Khanna. Plodding to the Big Tree (Mtini) on Mizingani Road, we were exhausted. We stretched out of legs on the nearest concrete baraza, looking at the motorboat owners resting under the branchs of the enormous banyan tree, waiting for their next fare to Changuu Island. Gathering our strength and wits, we got up, walked by the Old Dispensary on our way to Malawi Road, briefly visiting the now-defunct fountain erected in the 1930s by our ancestor Hussein Sheriff Dewji before sitting down to eat some kababs and samosas. Then it was time to catch our boat to Dar-es-salaam.

Filling out the embarkation forms at the immigration was the last bit of sanity we enjoyed before rushing headlong into the madness of gridlocked traffic jamming a single ramp to board three big passenger ferries. "This is ridiculous," exclaimed a flustered German tourist, blocking a pushy man from cutting in front of her. Eventually, we made it on the boat after suffering the trials and tribulations of getting on another ramp. At last, we found our seats, and the boat pushed off its moorings. We were home free!

Not so fast. We still had to endure two hours of the exact same Rambo movie and WWE show that we suffered through on our trip to Zanzibar...

Up Next - Part 4: The final days in Dar-es-Salaam.

Click here to see some of my pictures from Tanzania: http://travel.webshots.com/album/576647760xxpRyj