Jambiani

The east coast of Zanzibar is many people’s idea of paradise. White beaches, a blue blue turquoise green sea, but always calm and clear; wooden dhows dotted across the lagoon; and, in the distance, a deeper blue line, flecked with white surf, as waves crash where they meet the coral reef. I’m sitting on the terrace of a small bungalow with a garden of palm trees, cactii and a flametree. The garden ends where the beach begins. For the first time in weeks, it’s midday and I’m not sweaty. The breeze through the trees and the lapping of waves is cooling and relaxing.

Of course this is not paradise. It’s just a scene from a Bacardi advertisement. Fifty yards from the beach, behind our bungalow, are the houses of the residents of Jambiani. They are not on holiday. They live here, many of them without work, some of them selling face-painting or massages to tourists; others, selling boat trips or tours; none of them living well. None of them, that is, apart from the Swedish businessman who owns the bar and the beach bungalows where we eat dinner and drink cold beers. It illustrates one of the challenges for development in Africa. This country is crying out for investment, but when it comes, it comes from Sweden or China or Italy and the profit goes back to whence it came. The investment creates employment, but often the jobs are short-term and unskilled.

Last night, Hassan, our neighbour, entreated us to eat at his place. We had imagined another thatched duka with plastic chairs. We had not imagined that his wife would prepare a fish curry especially for us, that he would come to our house to check we are coming and to escort us; we had not imagined that we would go in his house, sit at a small wooden table and wait for him to serve us, elegantly, with warmth and almost too much enthusiasm. His house was a series of concrete rooms, separated by dirty corridors. Apart from our small room, there was no light and his wife sat on the concrete floor in the dark preparing our dinner over a jiko. The food, although salty, was delicious. Great chunks of changu fish in a rich curry, were served with a flourish by Hassan, his voice booming in the dark. After we’d eaten, he brought rose scented water with clean towels. He washed and dried our hands and when we asked for the bill, he said,

“Pay what you think. I want people to know what we do.”

Our quandary this morning is to wonder what might Hassan achieve if he could build the duka outside his home that will enable him to run a restaurant commercially. If he got the investment, would he have the business skills to make a profit and grow his business? We’re not sure. Hassan is charming, loud, with huge energy; but is he as wily as the quietly spoken Swede running the bar on the beach. The Swede already has the cards stacked in his favour.

As the tide recedes, evidence of the local African enterprise emerges from the waves; small stakes in the sand used to trap and grow seaweed. The seaweed is collected at low tide by local women and sold for pennies. The two men, Peter and Musa,  who took me out on their dhow to see the coral reef, spoke of what they need to do to make a living when the tourists are not there, fishing, cutting wood in the forest, repairing boats – odd jobs to get them from one month to the next.

As we leave Jambiani, young boys are waiting for low tide, so they can race their toy boats in the deep rock and coral pools left behind. Peter and Musa are off to fix their largest sail for Friday’s dhou race, an event created for tourists, but taken very seriously by local boatmen; an old woman is selling massages, Hassam is inviting new tourists to his home for dinner and I’ve left a caustic message with Simba, the agent, about the fact that although he had promised us that the fundi would fix it, we were without water for most of the two days we stayed there. That’s Africa.