Zanzibar. Even the name sounds sexy. Every description I’ve ever read about Zanzibar is painted with saccharine romanticism: the scent of exotic spices waft in the air, dhows sail through turquoise waters, the call to prayer echoes in alleys, the legacy of Omani sultans prevails
I’ve been to Zanzibar once before, 10 years ago. And I remember distinctly that it lived up to every exotic expectation that the travel articles had bestowed upon it. I remember arriving at the port in Stone Town as the call to prayer was booming over the loudspeakers. I was with three friends and we were meeting Lily, but we had forgotten to make a plan. Eventually we found her, I can’t remember when, where or how. The wind was blowing the sweet smell of spices like cardamom, masala, cinnamon, and cloves. As we turned down a narrow side street, a gust of wind blew dozens of small, old pieces of paper into the air. We jumped up and down the alley catching the paper, the edges of which were frayed, the pages discolored, soft and thin. Each piece of paper had a description of a country on it - it was clear it had been written sometime in the late 60s based on which countries were noted as independent states versus colonies. After collecting our keepsakes, we continued walking and I remember women in long burkas opening their doors and inviting us into their homes for spiced tea. Everything I had read was exactly right: within 5 minutes of stepping off the boat, Zanzibar was the most exotic and romantic place I had ever been to
I wasn’t sure if my memory had mixed with travel journal hyperboles or if Zanzibar really was this special. I was excited to go back and find out - though Tom was more skeptical, reminding me how much can change in 10 years in a tourist destination, as had happened in Siem Reap where you can now take body shots at Senor Frogs after visiting Angkor Wat
But first we had to get to Zanzibar. We decided to bypass Dar es Salaam because we wanted to avoid the traffic and had no real reason to go. Instead, we took the hypotenuse up from Chalinze and cut across to the coast at Bagamoyo, just north of Dar es Salaam. Our plan was to drive up the Swahili coast for a few days to Tanga (the northernmost beach town) where there was a flight to Zanzibar. But we forgot to check the price of flights and when we finally got around to sorting our logistics, the flights were $300 each and we didn’t want to spend that money. There are three ways to get to Zanzibar: (1) fly from Dar es Salaam or Tanga, (2) take the passenger ferry from Dar es Salaam, or (3) take a locals boat - either speed boat or sailboat. The third option was discouraged by guidebooks and tourists alike due to safety. But the flight was expensive, and there wasn’t a passenger ferry from Pangani which is where we were leaving our car. So we took a speed boat and filed this under the same sort of guidebook advice as “don’t walk around Bernal Heights alone at night”.
We paid $100 for the boat because everyone knows spending money makes you safer, and we thought this bought us a private boat, not the locals boat. Besides it was still cheaper than a flight. Turns out, like dummies, we just subsidized the cost of the locals boat for everyone else. The boat was a dinky little thing with just a small engine and some wooden planks along the side for us to sit on. They gave Tom and me thin life jackets which were more symbolic than anything - I’m not sure the material inside could even float. There was no dashboard on the boat, no satellite phone, just an empty vessel with an engine, 6 people, two dumb tourists in neon orange life vests, and a rickety blue and white striped awning. The water was choppy and the internet told us it was going to rain in Zanzibar - though everyone we asked shook their head, no rain until November.
As we made our way through the channel you could feel how rough the sea was. The guys on our boat didn’t speak much English but tried to reassure us it would calm down once we were further out. It didn’t calm down. In fact, it got much worse. The clouds in the distance were dark and filled with rain. The ocean was also dark, with white caps outlining each wave. Within minutes, we were getting soaked from waves crashing around us. Our “captain” would hit a wave too hard, our boat would shoot up, and during the brief moment while it crested in the air, I would curl my neck down to protect it for landing. The longer we floated, the harder the smack back into the ocean. Wave after wave, we were getting pounded. Tom was sitting across from me and at one point mouthed the word, “whiplash”. The it started raining. We were now getting soaked from all directions. The men kept telling us it’s never this choppy, somehow thinking that would make us feel better. At one point our engine went out briefly right as we lost sight of land behind us and couldn’t yet see Zanzibar. My brain invented a million different scenarios for what would happen if we couldn’t get it started again. Maybe, if all ended well, I could write the sequel to Life of Pi about my hallucinations on the Indian Ocean and make millions of dollars and go on Oprah to discuss my bestseller!
The captain got the engine started in under a minute, so I didn’t have too much time to panic. The engine would turn off again a few more times on our trip, though now intentionally, so the men could pee off the back of the boat. At one point, the driver unexpectedly slowed down and I soon realized it was because we were surrounded by dolphins. Probably 50 of them all around us. Their dark blue-grey color matched the glossy ocean. They were jumping and swimming and diving under our boat and through the waves. It was magnificent. Though I still wished we weren’t on the boat.
By the time we got to Zanzibar, 2+ hours after our journey began, our clothes were soaked through and our eyes were hazy with salt water. We looked around and realized we had no idea where we were. Turns out, we were on a beach on the northern tip of the island, about 60 kilometers away from Stone Town. I thought I remembered going through immigration the last time I came here. But there’s no immigration when a random boat drops you off at a random spot on a random beach somewhere on a northern shore.
We paid $100 for the boat because everyone knows spending money makes you safer, and we thought this bought us a private boat, not the locals boat. Besides it was still cheaper than a flight. Turns out, like dummies, we just subsidized the cost of the locals boat for everyone else. The boat was a dinky little thing with just a small engine and some wooden planks along the side for us to sit on. They gave Tom and me thin life jackets which were more symbolic than anything - I’m not sure the material inside could even float. There was no dashboard on the boat, no satellite phone, just an empty vessel with an engine, 6 people, two dumb tourists in neon orange life vests, and a rickety blue and white striped awning. The water was choppy and the internet told us it was going to rain in Zanzibar - though everyone we asked shook their head, no rain until November.
As we made our way through the channel you could feel how rough the sea was. The guys on our boat didn’t speak much English but tried to reassure us it would calm down once we were further out. It didn’t calm down. In fact, it got much worse. The clouds in the distance were dark and filled with rain. The ocean was also dark, with white caps outlining each wave. Within minutes, we were getting soaked from waves crashing around us. Our “captain” would hit a wave too hard, our boat would shoot up, and during the brief moment while it crested in the air, I would curl my neck down to protect it for landing. The longer we floated, the harder the smack back into the ocean. Wave after wave, we were getting pounded. Tom was sitting across from me and at one point mouthed the word, “whiplash”. The it started raining. We were now getting soaked from all directions. The men kept telling us it’s never this choppy, somehow thinking that would make us feel better. At one point our engine went out briefly right as we lost sight of land behind us and couldn’t yet see Zanzibar. My brain invented a million different scenarios for what would happen if we couldn’t get it started again. Maybe, if all ended well, I could write the sequel to Life of Pi about my hallucinations on the Indian Ocean and make millions of dollars and go on Oprah to discuss my bestseller!
The captain got the engine started in under a minute, so I didn’t have too much time to panic. The engine would turn off again a few more times on our trip, though now intentionally, so the men could pee off the back of the boat. At one point, the driver unexpectedly slowed down and I soon realized it was because we were surrounded by dolphins. Probably 50 of them all around us. Their dark blue-grey color matched the glossy ocean. They were jumping and swimming and diving under our boat and through the waves. It was magnificent. Though I still wished we weren’t on the boat.
By the time we got to Zanzibar, 2+ hours after our journey began, our clothes were soaked through and our eyes were hazy with salt water. We looked around and realized we had no idea where we were. Turns out, we were on a beach on the northern tip of the island, about 60 kilometers away from Stone Town. I thought I remembered going through immigration the last time I came here. But there’s no immigration when a random boat drops you off at a random spot on a random beach somewhere on a northern shore.
Turns out we were in Nungwi. The water’s edge was lined with hotel after hotel. The white beach was covered with lounge chair after lounge chair. There were beachfront restaurants with tables in the sand, selling hookahs and pizza. Top-40 techno music was blasting from the speaker of the nearest restaurant. There were Europeans on inflatable rafts and Russians on barstools.
Confusingly, there were also Maasai men in traditional tribal attire roaming the beach. Visually, their dark red robes against the electric turquoise ocean and dark gray clouds was stunning. I soon realized they had stalls set up on the other side of the hotels, which made their presence make more sense. I assumed they were in costume but I still enjoyed watching them walk up and down the beach in their blue reflective sunglasses.
Confusingly, there were also Maasai men in traditional tribal attire roaming the beach. Visually, their dark red robes against the electric turquoise ocean and dark gray clouds was stunning. I soon realized they had stalls set up on the other side of the hotels, which made their presence make more sense. I assumed they were in costume but I still enjoyed watching them walk up and down the beach in their blue reflective sunglasses.
Tom and I changed out of our soaking wet clothes and sat at a table in the sand. We embraced the techno and the tourists. Tom ordered coffee and a pina colada and I drank a cocktail called dawa. We ate calamari salad and prawns and tried to restore our vision after the salt water assault from the morning. This was far from my entry into Zanzibar 10 years ago. I was nervous Tom was right.
We finally got a taxi to Stone Town, tired and heavy eyed from our drinks and boat ride. The taxi took a little over an hour and dropped us off just outside the center of Stone Town - which can only be entered by foot, bike or motorcycle. We walked through the thin side streets, navigating around stray cats and carts selling mangos and sugarcane. There was a group of men wearing kufis gathered on a stoop drinking masala tea and playing checkers, nearby a wrinkly woman hunched over a cauldron and prepared soup and chapati for lunch. The breeze blew and lifted up the window curtains from people’s homes so we could peek inside. The wooden doors, old and intricately carved, held the memories of an ugly history marred by the slave trade. Children ran from the mosque to their homes for lunch and scooters swerved and honked their way around blind curves. Around the next corner a man sold grilled octopus and skewers of chicken red with masala. I could smell the spices, I could hear the call to prayer. I could feel every drop of that saccharine romanticism and it was beautiful, charming and exotic. Damnit Zanzibar. You still got it.
We finally got a taxi to Stone Town, tired and heavy eyed from our drinks and boat ride. The taxi took a little over an hour and dropped us off just outside the center of Stone Town - which can only be entered by foot, bike or motorcycle. We walked through the thin side streets, navigating around stray cats and carts selling mangos and sugarcane. There was a group of men wearing kufis gathered on a stoop drinking masala tea and playing checkers, nearby a wrinkly woman hunched over a cauldron and prepared soup and chapati for lunch. The breeze blew and lifted up the window curtains from people’s homes so we could peek inside. The wooden doors, old and intricately carved, held the memories of an ugly history marred by the slave trade. Children ran from the mosque to their homes for lunch and scooters swerved and honked their way around blind curves. Around the next corner a man sold grilled octopus and skewers of chicken red with masala. I could smell the spices, I could hear the call to prayer. I could feel every drop of that saccharine romanticism and it was beautiful, charming and exotic. Damnit Zanzibar. You still got it.
Gallery:
