My entrance to Tanzania was rather inauspicious. After breaking my only pair of flip flops running for a coach which had turned up an hour late and forgotten to pick us up, I borrowed the only shoes available to me. Unfortunately Christy is a UK size 3 and I am a size 8. Hobbling over the border with more foot on the ground than in my shoes we re-boarded our bus and sped away towards Dar es Salaam. On arrival we realised that "Luther House" was not just the name of our hotel but that it was connected to the city's Lutheran cathedral. Bibles in the rooms and a strict no alcohol policy encouraged us to leave and wander out on the streets in the hope of some food and a beer. During Ramadan. Needless to say no food was found until after sun down and beer proved to be non-existent.
After a couple of days in Dar we took the ferry over to Zanzibar. It began well enough but as soon as we left the harbour the boat began to pitch and roll and my stomach began to do the same. Me and Emily, who was similarly afflicted, decided to make our way through the bottom decks, which resembled a cargo hold for people, and up to the top where we hoped the fresh air would settle our stomachs. After getting lost and nearly throwing up all over the nearest child we were rescued by a nice Dutch girl who showed us the way to the deck. We sat against the railings staring at the horizon and scowling at the fast expensive ferry full of sensible less broke tourists which passed us half way through the three hour journey from hell.
But Zanzibar. Worth every hideous minute of it. We spent a couple of days wandering around stone town's tiny winding streets crisscrossed with washing lines and electrical wires. The call to prayer chimed from loud speakers and people spilled out of mosques at sundown to break their fasts that had lasted since dawn. In the grounds of what is now the Anglican Cathedral you can visit the old slave chambers which were used to hold the slaves for days before the market. In a tiny room in which I felt claustrophobic when four of us entered, 75 women and children would be held for days on end with no running water, sanitation or light. Where the alter of the cathedral now stands was the "whipping post" where the men would be tied up and whipped with stingray tails before being sold. Those who didn't cry fetched a higher price. The shear volume of human suffering is genuinely staggering and I felt myself well up several times.
The last few days we have spent in little village called Jambiani which, though touristy, is small enough to still be charming. The sea is so blue that if you showed me a photo of it I would think it had been photo-shopped. Tiny handmade wooden boats dot the shore and the sand is so white it makes even me look tanned. The evenings are a bit more lively and I spent Saturday night dancing on the beach to Shania Twain with 3 drunken Masais! I have a now have a week here to do nothing but lie back, chill out and catch some rays. Next stop the girls leave me and I get on a 40 hour train to Zambia on my own....wish me luck!
The beach at Jambiani, courtasy of Google.
