#39 – Sept 21st 2007

Zanzibar Entry #1

Papaasi…“ticks”

Paradise has not yet beheld me. A series of annoyances have catapulted me into a state of constant apprehensiveness. I am anxiously awaiting the demise of this state of being. Thus far my holiday has had potential but no follow-through. Let me explain.

It began when my plane started to descend an hour early. I was distracting myself from turbulence with my latest itunes playlist appropriately titled ‘Beach,’ when there was a drop in altitude. I peered out the window expecting to see the sandy beaches of Zanzibar. Instead I saw the expansive desert foothills of Mt. Kilimanjaro. Already an uneasy flyer, the unexpected addition of another landing and take-off wreaked havoc on my nerves. After a 30 minute stop over at the base of the famous mountain, and another 45 minutes in the air, we began to descend once again, this time over the turquoise waters I expected. My heart leapt at the sight of lapping waves foaming onto miles of palm-lined beach. A smooth landing, hassle-free visa purchase, a short taxi ride into Stone Town and I was being escorted to my hotel room.

As I set out for an evening stroll my step and mood were light; I expected to gain the island’s acquaintance and to enjoy it tremendously. The first person to approach me did so innocently enough. “Jambo! Habari gani?” I was fine, I replied, and stopped for a small chat. We talked for a while but when he asked for my phone number I knew it was time to move on. The warm sea breeze blowing against my face returned my thoughts to those of seafood and solitude, but only temporarily, as I was stopped several more times before I cut down a path to the beach to get away from all the people hassling me. I had read about these Papaasi or “ticks,” the infamous beach boys known for pestering tourists, and hoped they would eventually take a hint and leave me alone.

Down by the shore line I was surrounded by white sand, the broad open Indian Ocean crawling towards restaurants whose patios stretched to the shore. I arrived just in time for the sunset. Within minutes I was joined by a Rasta (very prevalent on the island) who manipulated my naïve newness into thinking he wasn’t like all the other lecherous beach boys who had harassed me on my walk. He accompanied me to Forodhani Fish Market where I had planned on eating dinner. A rite of passage for first-timers to the island, the market is essentially small individual stands set up at sundown, selling the fresh catch of the day for a steal. Octopus, crab, lobster, squid, tuna, muscles, even shark, all piled high on paper plates for less than $2. I had unfortunately decided to play the roll of gullible tourist and walked smack into a trap. I was whisked by my new Rasta “friend” to a picnic table over-looking the ocean, softened up with a sweat cold glass of sugarcane juice and presented with delectable samplings of seafood. My taste-buds were overjoyed, having gone five long months without tasting descent fish. My spirits were quickly climbing. I chuckled as the rich German tourist next to me unblinkingly over-paid for his meal, 10,000 Tanzanian Shillings, for what should have been less than 4000Tsh. I wasn’t the least bit concerned that I would share his problem, as I consider myself a seasoned bargainer, and hey, my new friend wouldn’t let me be overcharged right? I had been smart enough to come to the market with a local, hadn’t I? The last drop of sugarcane juice gone, I asked how much I owed. For me they’d make a deal, he said, 25,000Tsh. They weren’t joking, and when I gaffed and stuttered and claimed I didn’t have that much, then offered 10,000Tsh while backing away, they started following me to my hotel. A strong image of my mother came into my mind, imploring me to pay the money and get myself out of there. To give you an idea of how outrageous that price is, I’ve taken Sandra, Junior, David, and Tonny out in Kampala for a nice dinner and paid 18,000 for food and drinks. I begrudgingly paid the money and hurried into my hotel.

Back in my room I was stuck with the most depressed feeling; of being used, taken advantage of. I felt embarrassed. To cap it off, my cell refused to work. I went to bed early, hoping the bitter taste of the evening would disappear by morning.

Zanzibar Entry #2

My second day started out innocently enough, with a morning of bargain shopping in the small stores that sit hidden down the long, narrow streets of Stone Town. The sun’s hot and humid beams were deflected by crumbling stone buildings, once white, now blackened with age, all in various states of disrepair. Each house hosted a craftsman’s masterpiece – grand doors, whose fine intricacies could hold one’s attention for hours. Later in the day I escaped the sun and explored one at length, admiring the painstaking detail carved into the wood.

I visited interesting shops; Indians selling antiques, Masai selling traditional jewelry, Zanzibaris selling spices and ‘Muzungu’ t-shirts. Malachite bracelets and ebony necklaces, hand-woven bags and pillowcases, treasure chests and ancient clocks. Some shop owners humble and quiet, some pushy and greedy, most tourists deserving whichever treatment they received. My previous day’s experiences apparently did nothing to dissuade me from thinking I could wheel and deal in Stone Town the way I could in Kampala. In Uganda my experience has been that a kind smile and a few worlds in Luganda goes a long was to receiving kind and fair treatment. Not so in Stone Town. More often than not I was herded into the store by obnoxious owners who shadowed my every move and fell just short of clasping their jewelry around my neck and arms, imploring me to “Buy, Buy!” until I showed enough disinterest to make them ignore me completely.

I apparently arrived at my lunch destination too late to receive any service whatsoever and was left alone just long enough to discover I was the only person in the restaurant not smoking. After a similar experience at the next restaurant I decided to forget about eating altogether and made tourist mistake #57, walking around, camera in hand, staring inquisitively at things. I’m sure in Paris this is safer to do, but as a solo female traveler, I’m beginning to discover it’s unadvisable. At every turn, every stop, every moment of indecision I was greeted (not a problem), approached (fine), stopped (annoying), and followed (not cool). I’m not in the habit of being rude to strangers, but by the end of the afternoon I was for once thankful my t-shirt read ‘California’ so it wasn’t my country getting the bad rap for my discourteous behavior.

Unable to take refuge on the beach for fear of being accosted by beach boys, I ventured into a ritzy hotel called The Serena, which advertises ‘stunning beach views’. Thankfully I wasn’t disappointed. I chose a cushiony seat beside the pool, with a breath-taking view of the sea, and ordered a strong tropical drink and a seafood salad. Generous helpings of lobster, crab, and prawns and the pleasurable comic relief of a Joseph Heller novel, and I finally felt myself starting to relax.

Zanzibar Entry #3

Early Saturday morning I embarked on a spice tour. Zanzibar is famous for its sweet-smelling exports, which have been finding the world marking increasingly uncooperative. A main staple such as cloves used to fetch 10,000Tsh per kilo, now it barely scrapes up 1,500Tsh. Up to 80% of the islands’ inhabitants who relied solely on this income-generating crop have been forced to seek out other forms of employment. Although my first few days culminated in loathsome disregard for the solicitous, unscrupulous beach gnats, as I wandered through the spice fields and inhaled the delicious aromas of lemongrass, ylang ylang, and vanilla, I was reminded that the West is not blameless in this situation. These beach boys could not work in what should have been their county’s booming spice trade because the powerful players in the International Financial Institutions and trade organizations spread the competition and keep prices low, ensuring all the while that we have ready access to any spice our palate desires; turmeric, cumin, ginger, pepper, etc.

I crushed each clove, each bead, each stick, between my fingers; powders of bright yellow, deep red and brown dyed my hands. I envisioned the arduous, time-consuming work that went into the process of taking root, flower and seed and transforming it into the spice in its consumable form. I imagined the price Zanzibaris sold it for, and the price we buy it for. I imagined what our meals would taste like without spice, what our soaps and shampoos would smell like, whether perfume would exist. No vanilla-scented candles, no cinnamon sticks, no tikka masala.

By my third night in Stone Town I was starting to get into the swing of things. As unfortunate as it felt to ignore people, I learned that if I wanted to get through the day without being accompanied or followed by someone anxious to dip their hands into my wallet I had to be rude. This personality tweak felt foreign, like temporarily housing someone else’s mannerisms, each greeting met with a barely audible ‘Jambo,’ eyes cast downwards, speeding up my steps. I felt awful but to do the opposite would only lead to more trickery and false friendship. To the shop owners and restaurant staff, virtually anyone who didn’t look like they wanted to hassle me, I was my normal self, and indeed the African charm and hospitality was alive and well within many of the Zanzibaris I met.

~Nicole