Now THIS is what I've been looking for!

Ahhhhhhh... Zanzibaaaaaaaahhhhhhhrrrr!!!
***sighhhhhhhhh….***

I have made it off the island of Pemba and my whole world is right again. Oh why didn’t I do this sooner? I arrived in my swiftly suffocating island paradise 3 ½ months ago and had no idea how stifling it really was until I had the chance to step outside of it all. Oh I am so excited to be stepping, skipping, and jumping outside of it all. I said I was only going to be gone a week – please give me the strength to stay true to that word. It’s going to be very, very difficult to go back at this point.

Brendan has finished working at the dive shop so we planned a holiday for me to accompany him for a couple of days in Zanzibar then the mainland while he gets things sorted out for his return to the motorbike journey of putt, putt, puttering down through Africa. I needed to get out of Pemba, had never seen Zanzibar or Dar es Salaam so now seemed like the perfect time to check out the real world. And my oh my the real world it has been. Stonetown is really only a two hour ferry ride south of Pemba but come on now people, this is Africa. NOTHING is as it’s supposed to be.

Woke up nice and early in the morning as we had planned to take the dala dala (the local pick up truck / mini bus thing) from the village 1km outside of the resort (Makangale village) into the town where you catch the ferry. The dala dala comes through Makangale everyday at 7am, drives to the next town of Konde, where you switch to another dala dala that takes you to the ONLY “city” on Pemba, Chake Chake, where you switch dala dalas again to get to Mkoani, where you catch the ferry. ***SIGH!*** The owner’s wife had offered to drive us the 1km from the dive shop to Makangale so we were off to a good start. And then Africa happened. We waited and we waited as crowds of gaping, staring, curious children gathered, school kids tripped and stumbled as they walked past, heads turned backwards with owl-like ease, to look wide-eyed and open mouthed, and adults stood mute and unsure until some random bit of reasoning in the back of their still and silent heads shook them free from their trance. Two white kids waiting for local transport. Local transport that of course, doesn’t come.

A friendly teenager who we had both had brief passing conversations with in the village before but of course didn’t recognize us combined his desire to practice English with an inconsequential ability to be helpful. He needed to catch the same dala dala to get to the next town of Konde where he goes to school. After much chatter and checking with this person and that, it was determined that the dala dala would not be leaving Makangale until 9am; there would be no way for us to make the 12pm ferry. This information was relayed with a shoulder shrug and small smile to us and another local who was waiting for the same transport to catch the same ferry. The teenager offered us his condolences as he hopped on the back of a friend’s bicycle to make it to school. In the meantime, Zanzibar Major, the local waiting with us, arranged to have an oxcart, yes an oxcart, carry our luggage as the three of us hoofed alongside to get to Konde. For the next hour and a half or so, Brendan, Major, and I walked the 8kms of dirt road and tarmac through the forest and into town in the thankfully early morning hours – hot but not fall over and die hot. Why we couldn’t find a bigger oxcart that we could actually ride in as well was beyond me but the fact that we often had to stop and wait for the ox to catch up, well, it was probably a good thing that we set the pace on foot.

So off to a bit of exhausting start. Luck looked like it was turning in our favour a bit as the dala dala from Konde to Chake Chake left quite quickly after we arrived and as the rain started to pour down on our arrival in Chake Chake, we raced to hop in departing NOW dala dala to Mkoani. Good timing all around. I think. I mean, we just walked 8kms being followed by an oxcart. But yeah, we’ll say good timing.

I just don’t have the words to describe travelling by local transport here. Crammed in like sardines is just way too comfortable because the sardines are all lined up nice and neat, side by side, same same, you know what you’re getting. Dala dala travel is benches alongside the length of an extended truck bed, covered by a tarp-like contraption, thankfully, with the amount of people crammed in actually being fairly impressive, if you’re looking from the outside in. If you’re inside, well, it’s a bit of a different story. Sitting with legs and arms jammed tightly together, if both of your butt cheeks are on the seat, then it means that one of someone else’s butt cheeks is on your lap, and feeling the elbows, hands, feet, hair, clothing, hot breath, and other random bits of your neighbours pressing deeply into your lack of space. Add heat, dust, diesel, random unidentifiable smells from packages and their owners, live chickens stuffed into woven bamboo baskets and frequent, lurching stops and starts, and there you have it folks, welcome to local travel. Best part… I loved it! I was with people, I was in a moving vehicle, I was watching people laughing and having conversations, and I was seeing things I hadn’t seen before. I probably could have done without the oh-dear-I-think-someone-may-have-pooped-their-pants odor for part of the ride, but really, it was all an adventure. I was a happy girl.

Into Mkoani, time to get a ticket for the ferry. It’s an accepted thing here that there is one very reasonable price for locals, for everything, and one extraordinary price for foreigners. And when I say extraordinary, I mean even when compared to prices at home. Africa is very, very expensive for white faces. Very. So the local price for the fast ferry that was leaving ASAP, the only one going on that day, is 18,000 Tshillings. Roughly $18 CDN, give or take. The foreigner’s price… 52,000 Tshillings. 3 times the local quote. No small mark ups here, my dear. And they know, you either pay the price or you’re stuck in town for the night, where they can charge you a small fortune to stay at one of the only two seedy guesthouses. You’re at their grinning, evil mercy. Completely. We had limited funds because of course the one ATM in Chake Chake wasn’t working. Brendan managed to work a deal where we paid some Tshillings and some US dollars to get on this soon to be departing ferry. Tickets in hand, we march down to the pier.

Oh love a duck, how the entire continent of Africa hasn’t simply imploded upon itself is a mystery to me. As hundreds of us gathered, pushed, pulled, shoved, and crowded our way around the ramp of the ferry, they had yet to let the current passengers off. As ferry staff and then eventually a couple of official looking police officers (??)attempted to get the lot of us to form lines, drawing ropes across here and there so that people couldn’t enter from the sides, the wave of eager to board cattle pushed past these mob organizers and inched ever forward. Shouts and small arguments broke out here and there which did nothing but provide opportunity for others to sneak into the anger created spaces as opposing parties squared off over who should bring what and who should be where. I pushed back, firmly stood my ground, then eventually elbowed and shouldered my way forward, smile on my face, focus in my step. We were getting on this boat. And with much determination (and only the slightest bit of aggression) we did.

By the time we were on the boat, all of the seats were taken as was most of the available space in aisles or on any flat surface wide enough to place a bottom, a body, or a bag. Ooooo… a set of stairs… ooooo… empty seats… swwwweeeeeet! We cozied ourselves in, fully knowing that this is the 1st class section (not in any way different from the other section, just up a set of stairs), but as more people poured in and more seats filled up, we busied ourselves with being the ignorant white folk preparing for our ocean journey. An official looking man in a clean while uniform came by at one point, looked at our tickets, and told us these were first class seats and we needed to move. Yeah, right. Not that easily Mister. Brendan asked if all the seats were actually purchased and if we could stay if there were still empty spots. The man was distracted, repeated that they were first class seats and we should go downstairs then moved on to some other random make-me-look-important task. We saw him later in the journey as he was sitting in the row directly ahead of us, watching the terrible local movie being shown on the TV. So much for first class only. It became apparent that ALL space is available space, you just have to get your way in there and buy time enough not to move because once the boat is in motion, all bets are off. The entire first class section, seats, floors, ledges, stairs, and any other clear flat surface, was being sat and / or slept upon as we pulled away from port. Nicely done, white folks, nicely done.

The two hour ferry ride was pretty uneventful as I had popped my trusted anti-throw up meds and was blissfully drooling on Brendan’s arm like a toddler at naptime. I love that medicine. Brendan’s keen been-in-Africa-for-a-long-time senses were on full alert as Stonetown harbor came into view. Come on, grab your bag, let’s get to the exit. We were one of the first to be standing by the ramp as we docked, thank every star in the sky, so we were able to avoid the crushing mass exodus as the same load of cattle we boarded with was now intent on disembarking.

While Brendan waited for bags to be passed down off the ferry, I stood back and watched. The people, the porters, the cargo, the vehicles, the mass of swirling, flowing, endless waves of black and flashing colours of fabric as the carefully covered women bustled about pulling scarves over heads and the men pushed and shoved packages and luggage along. This is what I’ve been waiting for. Bags in hand and off we tromped. Brendan had been to Stonetown before so we were able to march confidently past the shouting, grabbing, touts and straight out into the dirty, smelly, very alive port town streets. A friendly fellow guided us to a nearby guesthouse that was surprisingly clean and cheap. It has only been open since February, I think there were 5 of us in total staying there, 24 hr electricity, running HOT water, and clean…sigh…delightfully clean. Yes, we’ll stay here. By the time we got in to the room, it must have been nearing 5pm. We had been on the move since 6:30am. Ex-haus-TED! But rounds to be made, town to be seen! As the sun started to fade, I was expertly guided through the most intricate system of narrow alleyways running every which way through towering, ancient, crumbling concrete buildings that blocked out most of the sky; the most elaborate maze I’ve ever seen. Brendan’s navigational nuances came in very, very handy. I found myself laughing for no reason at all as we wandered through town looking at the famous Zanzibar doors and doorways (google it, they are stunning!), finding bizarre little shops around each little nook and cranny alley turn, coming out to an amazing seafood night market being set up alongside the water, and watching the busy tourist nightlife come alive. We sipped yummy fruit juices on a rooftop patio while the market slowly filled and I felt every bit of weight slip effortlessly from my shoulders as all thoughts of life on Pemba disappeared. All of my senses were singing a happy little song. This was going to be a very, very good next few days.

Wandering through the market of nicely organized table tops set up on the newly constructed promenade that runs parallel to the busy waterfront, the barbequed seafood options were staggering, and a little sad, as I’ve spend many of my days watching their brethren kin swimming alongside me in the vast Indian Ocean. Brendan chatted up one of the finest and friendliest vendors around as I watched the people drift by. A few skewers on a plate, a glass of freshly squeezed sugar cane juice in hand, and tired bums resting on concrete benches still warm from the day’s blazing sun – life is oh so good. A fabulous place to sit and soak up this new world as there are more locals than tourists who stop by for a quick dinner of the catch of the day and a relaxing visit overlooking the water and the various ships passing by. Plus, Zanzibar was without power, from December until March, and it is now coming into low season. We white faces were few and far between. I am loving this town.

Was woken up by the skies crashing down in the middle of the night – sounded like a semi truck racing through an echoing tunnel, but turned out to be the seasonal rains that unleash their fury this time of year. The rain seemed to bring with it a choking sulfur smell that we couldn’t place so couldn’t control. What the hell is going on here?! But heavy – lidded and half asleep, if it didn’t go away, we’d deal with it in the morning. Phew! Stinky!

The morning came, the rain stayed. Hanging out in the guesthouse was not an option so raincoats on, we tromped out to see what wet and soggy Stonetown had to offer. Markets and vendors were still humming in full force but the tourists seemed to be hunkered down so it was exactly what I came to see – locals doing their local thing. Busy, crowded, loud, smelly, pushy, bizarre at the bazaar – I was a happy kid! A long, soaking wet day (rain coats can only do so much for so long) covering endless ground sloshing in squishy shoes and I-feel-like-I-peed-myself clothes, nerves eventually wore thin. I can be supremely annoying – chat, chat, chat, question, dumb question, random comment, even more dumb comment, what’s this? what’s that? what do you think? hey! look at this! chat, chat, chat – oh my gawd SHUT UP!!!! Yes, poor boy probably could have and should have strangled me. He had been here before, I hadn’t, I was free from isolation, I was swimming in new and strange and exciting sights and sounds and smells… I was revving in high gear, he just wanted to chill after escaping the constricting world from whence we came. I was more than a little too much. Despite the drenched day and some testy moments, no one killed the other one, I got to see and do more than I could have ever done on my own, and I am convinced that going back to Pemba is definitely going to be short lived.

The skies cleared late in the afternoon and the African sun continued as we spent the rest of the day and some of the next seeing more of what we could see before hopping the next ferry to the mainland. Much more controlled crowds, an almost empty boat, and an uneventful journey. Welcome to Dar es Salaam. The big city. Big time.

Dar is a proper city. Crazy and crowded and all of the chaos that goes with a big third world city, but it’s a real city with everything we have at home. Well… let’s not get carried away. But yeah, there are shops and restaurants and traffic circles and oh so many cars. Cars, cars, cars. Wow, there are a lot of cars. We arrived late in the day so we settled into a less nice guest house in a much less nice place but it’s buzzing and it’s easy and life continues to be very good. Thankfully, the rain has been sporadic and the heat has been much more bearable as is the season. It’s more of a touristy area but the city is so crowded that really, other than the guesthouse and a few western style restaurants (filled with locals) it’s not the kind of touristy that you would think. The street where is guesthouse is located is double stuff packed all day long – several mechanic and auto parts shops are busy with the constant stream of vehicles in need of some sort of repair. Shocking! No, no, not really. We’ll get to the driving conditions later. There is constant whooping and hollering over the banging and clanging as they stand around, squinting and scratching their chins in unison contemplating their next move. Tools and parts and people strewn lazily about the “sidewalk” and store fronts – you never know what you might need. This place is the definition of organized chaos. Well, using “organized” as loosely as possible. The only hassles are taxis shouting to shuttle you around, other than that, I can tolerate the hellos or minor attempts at English conversation. This is a good time of year to be here.

A busy couple of days as there are things to be done. Went to where Brendan was keeping his motorbike and got to see and experience this mode of lethal transportation first hand. I love it, as many of you would remember… me… the back of a motorbike… heaven, but holy crow, there were a couple of moments as we were weaving through cars weaving through over-crowded, nonsensical streets where my heart was racing a bit out of fear and my stomach was fluttering as it tried to find a place to rest in my throat. More than the concerns for our general well-being though, I was thoroughly impressed with how Brendan was able to find his way around, no turn backs needed, and get us to where we were going. I think he was pretty impressed with himself too. Boys and their pride when it comes to finding the way. I’m actually A-OK with it because really, my lemming like sense of direction would have me falling off the nearest cliff and having no idea of how I got there. I am quite happy to sit back and be led around. Quite, indeed.

Funny life, here in big city Tanzania. Incredible mixture of colours and races as mosque speakers blare over honking horns and squawking street vendors. Ranges of female coverings from full burkas, hijabs, scarves, and random other bits of black or brightly coloured sparkly, stunning decorated cloth to the traditional and beautiful kangas wrapped around bodies, bums, and beautiful African heads to regular ole western style wear (not western as in cowboy, but western as in western world, just to clarify). The men are pretty western casual in their clothing, unless it’s mosque or prayer time when you’ll see a few more long light coloured nighties running around. It’s the women, always the women, who catch your eye.

Oh, and every single person, from the big city to my small village, owns a cell phone. No word of a lie. They may not have enough to eat tonight or their humble home may be in desperate need of repair, but everyone has a cell phone. Everyone.

The men, ahhhh, the men. They do like to lean. Most days, all day long, you’ll see handfuls, groups, throngs of men leaning, lounging, reclining, or full out sleeping in every stoop, on every corner, under every tree, outside every shop, in, around, and ON the lots of parked cars, and generally anywhere that you may want or need to walk. The women? As with most places in Africa, they are busy swishing, swooping, and swirling through the streets. Baskets, bags, boxes, and buckets on heads, cleaning, cooking, shopping, tending to, or straightening up. There is a strong business class here, many people dressed smartly rushing here and there, but you know that at home, there are the hard-working African Mamas holding it all together. Every book you read, every story you hear, it’s the women, always the women, who push life on. My sense of inadequacy grows by the day as I simply drift by, witness to the power of an African woman.

Even though Brendan needed to get lists of things accomplished before he’s ready to head down the coast of Mozambique, he indulged me in motorbike rides when he could. A day spent heading south, intending to follow the water line but instead found ourselves a bit turned around, was better than we could have planned. The scenery ranged from proper towns buzzing with thousands of people shifting on street corners as they waited for this local bus or that one, darting across the streets choked with every mode of transportation imaginable, all trying to squeeze into that last little space of concrete to get one short inch ahead of the next one (thank goodness for the motorbike as we politely but assertively pushed past them all) to blink-and-you-miss-it settlements of a fistful of mud huts and a few roadside vendor stalls offering to sell you whatever you might need, regardless of what it might be. The well maintained highway was mostly free of traffic until we came upon one of these towns or villages and instantly there appeared a solid line of vehicles and scattering people as far as the eye could see. Where did you come from? Where the hell are you going? What on earth is going on here? Cruising along to sudden dead stop, eek our way through the gaping stares hanging out of open car and bus windows, and then off again. So very, very strange.

But so much fun. Stopping for lunch at a beautiful convention resort in the middle of nowhere with no business but us and being treated with such kindness, people watching and being watched as we stopped to buy an excessive amount of fruit from the street vendors for a ridiculously small amount of money in one of the towns in constant motion, nobody pulling at us or seeing our white faces as an opportunity to take money. People carried on with their normal day to day and were polite, welcoming, but not the least bit intrusive or harassing. There was no tourism here, just life. It was fantastic.

We found lots of western style supermarkets (that I went NUTS over!) and even found a proper shopping mall on the outskirts of town, again, all thanks to Brendan’s Superman sense of direction and determination to get to where we wanted to go. To get around this city on that bike was a feat that cannot be dismissed lightly. Asian city crowding is one thing, there are motorbikes and scooters and vehicles by the gazillions, but African city crowding is a whole different ball game. Very few bikes, a million more cars, SUVs, and buses, all in some state of disrepair or severe distress loaded with excessive amounts of random people and cargo being driven with even more reckless abandon on roads barely intended for use. And I sat back, held on, and enjoyed the ride. Doesn’t really seem fair, does it?

I think more than anything, I was just completely over the moon excited about seeing civilization. Crazy or calm, harassing or welcoming, familiar or weird, it was all absolutely wonderful. Being on that resort for months had wiped my mind clear of life in the real world. While I was functioning day to day, normally puttering along, I was quickly and unknowingly sliding into a deprived and mangled life of reclusion where things become acceptable, simply because there is no option for change. It’s one of those things where you have no idea of how far gone you are until you surface again. And I have surfaced again. I have surfaced sputtering, choking, and gasping for the air that I had no idea I was in desperate need of. I have finally been introduced to the lives, culture, and experiences that I came here looking for. My heavy heart has been woken up to the adventure that lies just outside of that twisted and barbaric place that I have called home these past few months. I can shake my head in sorrow or I can see it as an opportunity to fully appreciate what the next part of my journey can be after being deprived of it for so long. Yes, yes, that’s what I’ll do. Start planning my journey.

After bidding a very sad farewell to someone whom has become deeply near and dear to my heart, I have returned to island life. Not one single guest for days to come and tension so thick I felt my throat close pulling into the plot. The bully has returned, his temper being more vicious and less in control than ever. He has verbally attacked his wife and Mac with a brand new level of fury and both of them continue to play the part of shrinking violet. Again, being where we are, so far from everything, are there really many options? As much as it angers me to see this creep doing what he does, I feel for both of them and I want to shake both of them. They are too deeply entrenched with this place and this man to see how wrong his behaviour is but they are also limited by the mind-numbing isolation that this place creates. Or so it appears. I’ve asked Mac why? Why does he continue to allow himself to be treated this way and he just looked at me with the heaviest eyes I have seen in a very long time, shook his head slowly and replied, “I don’t know.” To egg this beast on or even to merely stand up to him has potentially violent consequences. It appears that everyone has simply learned to stand by, a few steps back with head bowed, waiting out the tirade then tiptoeing lightly until you are again worthy enough to be spoken to. And yes, today he is Mr. Happy Sunshine. It’s sick. There’s no need to go into all of the gory details but the toxicity of this place is devastating. I must get out.

My long winded nature continues, big surprise, and now I need to go about planning my escape. It’s not as easy as it may seem as I have to figure out visas, where I’m going, what I’m doing, and how I’m getting there all while being unemployed. I think I’ll still stick with the plan of heading to the south of Mozambique but there are still things I want to see in Tanzania before I go. I hadn’t planned to hit Moz. until June but I can’t imagine being here for another 6 weeks. I just can’t imagine. But I have to plan carefully and quietly because if word gets out, he could make my life very, very difficult. He has been digging for information with what he thinks are innocent and carefree questions since I got back but really, I’m not that dumb. My answers remain vague, I am keeping my distance, and remembering that less is better here.

Now I am tasking you, my dear and dedicated readers, with sending good karma my way. If anyone has suggestions, connections, or job possibilities in Tofo or Inhambane Mozambique, please send them my way. I’ll be doing as many searches via sketchy internet as I can but finding work online in Africa is about as hopeless as me waking up 6’ tall tomorrow morning. I can wish as much as I’d like, but it ain’t gonna happen. Come on universe… throw me a good one!!!