1 & 2 January - Daylight robbery

The Union Brothers beach bungalows at Nungwi are managed and run by a motley group of men, all aged between twenty and forty, all of them pretty surly at times but hard working all the same. As we leave for Stonetown I tip those who had cared for us – a tip which was 1/150^th of the cost of one room for a night. We’ve shared the complex with our fellow VSO volunteers so last night was a warm New Year and farewell party, as some of them we are unlikely to see again. The party on the beach at midnight was a sweaty fusion of African rhythms and Yorkshire dancing in Crocs.

The next day, just before sundown, we watched the dhows return with the day’s catch. Half an hour later a wooden table was brought out on to the beach laden with wet, shiny barracuda, tuna, red snapper, durado, calamari, lobster and octopus. We chose our fish and watched the chef slice them, roughly but expertly, for the barbecue. We then sat down to a candle-lit dinner on the beach, the freshest fish I’ve ever eaten. The uneaten fish is packed off to Stonetown at about midnight, to be served in the restaurants there the next day.

As we drove back to Stonetown, we came face to face for the first time with corruption in public officials, as we watched our taxi driver slow down at the police checkpoint and smile. The two greeted each other like old pals,

“Asalaamu alekum,”

“Wa alekum salaam,” and a hand is drooped from the window of the car in nonchalant appearance of greeting. No-one sees the 1000 shilling note pass from driver to policeman. It happens smoothly, without comment or query, just a fixed smile on the part of our taxi driver.

“It happens all the time- every road, every car carrying passengers, every day.”

Meanwhile, traffic chaos reigns in Stonetown. For the want of a couple of traffic policemen, gridlock brings the city to a standstill.

“Does anyone complain?” I ask, naively

“No. No-one complains. That would only bring trouble. We’re used to it.”

It means that policemen are making thousands and thousands of shillings each year illegally by charging a highway tax from passing drivers. This is no Dick Turpin story. The country is imploding with inefficiency and waste while policemen stand on the sides of roads taking bribes.

We tourists pass on by, immune. We don’t notice the bribes and we don’t really care. It’s not our problem. There are two worlds here in one city. We are the only wazungo using the daladala from the concrete complex of Mchina into the market. We are always met with stares; sometimes hostile, but usually uncontrollably curious; and as we walk through the old town, we meet more and more white people, until finally, near the sea and the expensive restaurants, we outnumber the Africans.

European and Africans sit uncomfortably alongside each other here. You can’t live day in, day out, in grinding poverty and all the time watching riches beyond your dreams, saunter past your doorstep every five minutes, without it turning your mood and affecting your civility. 

We’re going back to the mainland tomorrow and some normality.