The Spice of Life

« Return to Zanzibar

It was late afternoon when the Vespa slid out from under me, careening into a mango tree to the absolute delight of the locals, gathered at a dusty intersection. No surprise then, the laughter and clapping, on a tropical island that lives by “Hakuna Matata”. Outside of Zanzibar, that translates loosely as “no worries mate.” Fortunately whole beneath the ripe mangoes that lined the street, I had none whatsoever.

A long and distinctly African journey had led finally led to my island paradise. Sweaty buses, overloaded taxis, 38 hours on the infamous Tazara Rail through Zambia and Tanzania, and finally, a three-hour ferry from the bustle of Dar Es Salaam. By the time I arrived in Stone Town, the movie-set-like capital of Zanzibar, I felt I deserved every quaint, cobblestone on its narrow, exotic streets. The Gothic churches, Sultan’s Palaces and opulent wooden doors were the unexpected bonuses, hiding at the back of the room of any adventure.

Zanzibar was once the United States’ most favoured trading nation, and it wasn’t for its prolific clove exports. In the early 1800’s, the small island off the coast of Tanzania was the center of the slave trade. Men, women and children were shipped in from all over Africa, often traded by tribal chiefs for cheap, shiny trinkets. The Sultan of Oman oversaw this “Walmart” of slavery, and as such enjoyed the kind of wealth that oil would bestow to his offspring a few generations later. His House of Wonders, a palace that survives to this day, is four stories of marble-coated magnificence located at the heart of Stone Town. Zanzibar was the second country on the planet to get electricity, and it was not until the slavery boom went bust that the island descended from its lofty, distasteful height. When the British installed their own government, the Sultan’s nephew attempted a coup, notable as the shortest war in history (45 minutes). The House of Wonders still bears scars from the British Naval pounding, and is now a museum to a forgotten era that was good to the few, and pretty lousy for the many.

These days, Zanzibar is a popular, if somewhat obscure travel destination. Australians, Kiwis, Canadians, Scandinavians, South Africans, and a brave American or two either stop in on their way down to South Africa, or their way up to Kenya. They gather at Africa House, drinking not-too-cold, too-expensive beer while wooden Dhai’s sail across postcard-perfect Indian Ocean sunsets. Subject to the enormous poverty of Africa, many locals see backpacks as a meal ticket and a toothy “Jambo” (Swahili for hello) will greet you everywhere. Keeping your basic survival instincts sharp should help you avoid the all-too-common rip-off, and for the most part, Zanzibaris are defiantly friendly.

After surviving the Knievel-esque scooter exit, ego intact, I found myself stuck on a boat in the middle on the ocean. The rust bucket had puttered out on the way to an old prison island creatively named Prison Island. Our smiley skipper believed that hammering the outboard repeatedly would remedy this fix, and when it didn’t, he shrugged an inevitable but worrying “Hakuna matata”. Disney’s Lion King co-opted the phrase, so parents dealing Disneyfied monsters may understand my predicament Three hours later, his friend arrived in another boat, we traded vessels and went on our merry way, the skipper still hanging out in his open-top raft. He’s probably still there today. By the time I saw my first giant tortoise, as beautifully ugly as you’d expect, I had forgotten those three lost hours I’ll never see again. My internal clock was slowly adjusting to African time, which follows no logical pattern whatsoever.

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