Zanzibar

First impressions last, they say. Zanzibar is not like Africa; at least, it’s not like the Africa I’ve seen. It is an exciting mix of Indian, Arabic and African smells, style and architecture. You can see at a glance why wazungo flock to Zanzibar, why Italians, particularly, love the island, and why the main town of Stonetown is so busy. At times it seems to be awash with souvenir shops, souvenir shoppers and young African men trying to persuade wazungo to buy yet more souvenirs. 

Stonetown is a place to mooch around. I’d like to, but am dissuaded because of the number of ticks pressing to be your guide or to take you to show you their brother’s shop. One such young man, Simon, befriended me yesterday. He wanted to show me his shop. I agreed. He showed me several, including his brothers. I commented on how many paintings of the Masai had actually been created by his brother. There are so many, in so many shops, all virtually identical. I showed him my wallet and his face fell. He told me he knows England. He has a brother living in Brixton.

I said “What another?”

and I thought, “Well, don’t we all?”

I’m told that poverty on Zanzibar is worse than anywhere in Tanzania, but, in truth, I haven’t seen it yet. We are staying in a fairly large apartment on the outskirts of Stonetown. There are many such concrete blocks, four storeys, dilapidated, more like East Europe than East Africa. Ours is set in an overgrown complex of concrete blocks, steel grilles on doors and windows pervade, concrete stair wells open from doors swinging aimlessly off their hinges, graffiti abounds, as does domestic waste. Were it not for the heat and, of course, the cows and the hens, we could be in east Leeds.

We have the same issue with water as we do at home in Mtwara. Water gurgles then thumps its way up to the huge tank on a concrete tower outside our bedroom and this is the sign to attach the plastic hose and fill your buckets. The water is clean but not drinkable and for one precious window of about an hour, you can shower in clean, clean water. What a treat!

The daladala here are even more exciting than in Mtwara. Two wooden benches installed on the back of a small Japanese truck can accommodate up to twenty- four people. Children then squeeze in the gap between our facing knees and daring men swing from the step on the back. Yesterday our conductor, holding on rather waggishly with one arm, as he collected fares with the other, allowed the  500/- which Id just paid, to fly from his hand in the breeze. He was annoyed but too cool to let it show. I saved him his blushes and we split our losses.