This morning I woke up at 5am in my hotel in Stone Town hearing screams. It wasn’t hyenas this time. It was even scarier. A drug dealer was trying to get money from a client that didn’t want to pay. I don’t know what happened at the end, but I guess the English guy was able to escape. Risking to be beaten for 10 pounds?
Jackson. I met him in the street today. It was touching talking to him. He was born here, but his ancestors are from Congo, former slaves. He’s one of the 2% of Christian Tanzanians. He doesn’t think it’s a problem, as long as you don’t go out looking for trouble. He’s against the separation of Zanzibar from Tanzanyika, because it would mean weakness, for both countries. He’s Christian, but he believes there is only one god for everyone, Love. While we are talking we hear some screams coming from Jaw’s Corner, where people meet every afternoon to play domino, after the 4pm prayer. They are discussing about independence and the role of the islamic movement, he explains. Later when I walk past there, my friend Ali confirms that they are all a bit too excited. It’s better if I go back later. Ok, I’ll go to the Slave Market.
Visit to the Slave Market in Stone Town
As guide I have Joseph, a law student. Nice, kind, Christian, and he tells me a lot of stories. Because he saw me taking notes, he started to tell me the story about slavery in Zanzibar. The Portuguese started the slaves trade in the 15th Century, from Eastern Africa they brought labor to Brasil and the Caribbeans. At the end of the 17th Century the Portuguese were replaced by Arabs from Oman, who took over their trade. The destinations also changed: they were now sent to Madagascar, to work on sugarcane fields, the Seychelles, stayed in Zanzibar on spice plantations, or were sent as concubine to Oman and India. The slaves were kept in rooms large about 15 sqm. They could host 50 men or 70 women and children. Chained, they received water and food once a day. The rooms, with tiny windows, had mud floor and a sewer in the middle as toilet, that was cleaned once a day by the high tide. Many died of hunger, asphyxiation and disease before they were sold. They were chained to a jojoba tree where they were lashed one at a time. The loudest one screamed, the cheaper he was. On June 6, 1873 the English government forced the Arabs to stop the slaves trade. The market building was closed down. But the trade kept on going, secretly, and in place of Stone Town slaves were kept in caves in the North-Eastern coast of Zanzibar, until 1907. A missionary bought the building of the former slave market and built a church on it. Inside it there’s one of the oldest pipe organs in Africa, dating 1880, brought here from England. At the entrance of the church there are two pillars, standing upside down. The bishop that was supervising the works at the church had to go away for some time, and when he was back he found the pillars in the wrong position. Tanzanians didn’t know how to put them, as they had never seen them before.
4.10pm I’m at Traveller’s Café. Coffee is a bit expensive, 2.500 Tsh and it’s a Nescafé, but the location is adorable. There’s a stretch of beach in front of me, where kids play football. I went back to Ali earlier. He explained to me that they prefer to separate from Mainland because all the taxes they pay go to Dar Es Salaam and they don’t get anything back (I’ve heard similar talks in Italy). School and health systems are terrible, and they were better off before unification. I never know how to reply, because I don’t know what is true and what is popular belief, if truly the capital doesn’t invest in the island. What I know is that in the South of Tanzania they are living worse than here. Talking about the burning churches, Ali thinks it was the government who gave fire to them, to put muslims in a bad light. They have nothing against Christians. They grew up together, eat together, play domino, have been living together for centuries; in Zanzibar was built the first church of Eastern Africa and the cathedral is very close to a mosque. Ali was born in Zanzibar, his father in Pemba and the mother in Tanga, I think, along the coast of the Mainland. But his grandparents were from Muscat. He was married but his wife cheated on him and he couldn’t forgive her. Now she’s married to a Dutch and lives in Europe.
Maybe I could also bath with my clothes on like these kids, who cares? The problem is that it would take me a long time to get dry. At a nearby table there’s a Dutch man that is also on holiday. He has been for the last 8 years. He can’t leave. I love the mix of races of Zanzibar. Everyone has ancesters that come from different places of the globe. They are good looking. And they speak a good English. Which doesn’t help me in learning Swahili, unfortunately, but it’s nice to be able to communicate.
7h45pm and I’m back to the Gardens and was caught by Oki Doki, who wants to come the the Northern coast with me. Because he wants my holiday to be better than I expected. I can’t get rid of him. Rafiki rafiki he calls me, friend. Right. We go to get a drink at Sunrise, we are late for the Italy match, and after the first half time I go back to my hotel. There were some Europeans watching the match too, but they were supporting Spain.
Prison Island, also known for its turtles, in Stone Town
June 19
I don’t know what time it is. Asubuhi, anyway, morning.
Prison Island. It was never a prison actually. The monsoons on the Indian Ocean from December to March brought a lot of boats to the coast of Zanzibar full of goods, Indians, Arabs and diseases. For this reason they decided to use this island as a quarantine place for the ill.
Now on the island there’s an expensive hotel and a centre to safeguard giant turtles. The oldest is 150 years old. 150 years spending every single day eating and sleeping. I don’t know if I would enjoy it.
We do some snorkelling nearby. There are beautiful corals and fish. And jelly fish. That scare me a lot. I don’t resist too long in the water. A short break on the beach to dry up and then we go back to Stone Town.
I have lunch at my favorite place where I can have chapati and a lovely soup made with tomato, onion and pieces of meat. Then coffee at Jaw’s Corner (the old man sells coffee at 0.05 euro, but he sells so many that at the end of the day he has some money to buy food. And coffee is good, it’s made with a moka). There’s a Barber Shop at Jaw’s Corner, where Ali hides his bottle of whiskey that he drinks in between domino matches, hidden from his muslim friends’ view. Barber Shop is quite busy, everyone goes there for a cut, they don’t have electricty at home, so while they are having their hair and beard cut they can recharge their phones (the shop has chargers for any type of phone).
8pm. I’m at Sunrise with Ali this time. I like him, he’s fun and kind and he tells interesting stories. We are here with his friends, having an aperitif with gin & tonic before dinner, if they remember to eat. A belgian man, that has been living here for 12 years, is married to a local woman and has 4 children; they opened one of the most popular places in Stone Town, but now his main occupation is consulting (I haven’t understood what type of consultancy though). There’s Joy, so called because when he drinks he starts singing and dancing. Creamy, I don’t know what he does. They are all about 50 years old, wealthy, according to the money they are spending in alcool. Here comes another one, younger, looking for advice because his wife wants to divorce him but he doesn’t want to, he’s too close to her, and even if she cheats on him, he spent most of his time with her and wouldn’t be able to live without her. For him she converted to Islam. There is only the third divorce left, the last one. Yes, he seem sure now, he’s gonig to sign tomorrow. Ali receives a call. A family from the Mainland has just landed in Stone Town and is looking for a house to rent for one month. Three people are now trying to find a place for the family. A fourth man keeps talking about his wife, a bit to himself, a bit talking to me. She doesn’t love him anymore, but he doesn’t care, he wants to live in the same house. As long as she is discreet. Another guy comes, an artist, looking for free pot. The Belgian guy is happy of his marriage, he tells me, but when his wife sees him going home every night drunk and stoned, is she happy?
June 20
I’m still in Stone Town. I can’t leave. Tomorrow, hopefully. I’m at the beach in front of the Traveller’s Café. Edi is teaching me some Swahili. Well, too much actually. Probably I won’t remember one single word of the thousands he is trying to teach me. In exchange I teach him some Italian, that he already speaks a bit. Oki Doki told me that Italians are good tourists. Many come here, usually on a group tour, on a day trip from one of the resorts by the beach, and they spend some money in souvenirs. So people in Stone Town like them and welcome them. And for this reason many people speak a bit of Italian. The other day a guy spoke with a strong Calabrian accent that made me laugh. I’m sorry for the people that come to Zanzibar and only stay at the beach resorts. They miss a lot.
3.30pm Jaw’s Corner. The tournament is in half an hour. But coffee is ready. I’ve been waiting for one hour. In the meantime the guy from the Barber Shop transferred some music to a usb drive and invited me to drink something and offered to go North with me. He’s 26, married, and introduced me to his son. The face of the Indian guy when he plays domino! And how he gets upset when his mate does something wrong! They remind me of the elderly at the community centres in Italy.
6.20pm I’m again at the beach at Traveller’s Café. I came to see my friend (can’t remember his name) playing football. I’ve been here for five days and everybody knows me. I think I would enjoy living here. Some kids came to the beach to train doing leaps.
going to the beach in Sottomarina with my friends and in the evening stop in Chioggia for a pizza
wear something different. I’ve been wearing the same tshirts for the last month.
It’s 3.38 pm and I’m in my room, in Stone Town. I needed a break. I thought Zanzibar would have been more expensive than the other parts of Tanzania, but more or less the cost of living as a tourist is the same. To sleep I paid 20USD the first night, but then with the threat of changing hotel, the manager reduced it to 12USD. Good. It’s in my budget. Last night I spent 5,000 Tsh to try the grilled octopus at Forodhani Gardens, where all tourists go for dinner at least once when they are here, but it was hard. I’ll go back to my rice at 1,000 Tsh tonight. The only expensive thing is coffee, if I want the freshly ground it’s 3,000 Tsh (1,5 euro).
Stone Town is a labyrinth. It reminds me of the medina in Fez. If there’s no one taking you, the first time it’s impossible to find the hotel you’re looking for. The fifth time too actually. Luckily there is always someone available to take you. The town is beautiful. The buildings are a mix of styles, arabic, indian, african and european. In the centuries so many people and cultures stopped here, in particular merchants, slaves and sailors from the Indian Ocean (Indians and Arabs). From here David Livingstone left for his explorations of Africa and here was born Faroukh Bulsara, before he became Freddy Mercury, but nobody knows in which exact building. I like this mix. People are also a mix: there are the pitch black, black with arabic traits and Indians. And like in all of Tanzania, Christians and Muslims live together. A couple of weeks ago someone lit fire on 4 churches, here in Stone Town. Some Muslims want a free and Islamic Zanzibar. But I don’t think a country like this would attract many tourists. And of course tourism is a great source of income for the island. The Italian embassy in Dar Es Salaam sent me a message advising to avoid some areas of Stone Town (that I don’t even know where they are, probably out of the centre). Now it’s quiet anyway, police is keeping everything under control.
The only annoying part of walking in town is that everyone comes to you to sell tours, the spice tour, to Prison Island (where live the giant turtles), to see dolphins, or on a boat ride at sunset. I don’t want to do any of these. I am happy walking around the tiny alleys, playing football with a plastic bottle and a 5 year old kid, watching men playing domino that to make signs they beat the pieces on the table so loud they scare me, share my 5 cents oranges with children, drink coffee in the street from the same cup used one second before by another client, after a quick rinse in the usual basin (it’s nice to have coffee available everywhere, after a month where it was hard to find!).
This morning I had breakfast with two Korean girls. They told me they have been traveling for one month. Good, in Tanzania only? Yes yes, replies one of them. “Wow, two atypical Koreans”, I thought. But no, her friend corrected her “no no, one month in Africa! We were in South Africa, Namibia, Botswana, Zimbabwe, Malawi, Zambia and after Tanzania we are going to Kenya”. Ok, I thought it was weird (btw, I love Koreans, they are fun and very nice people to talk to, just a different way of traveling than my own).
8.57 pm. I’ve just come back to my hotel. I spent the last two hours at the gardens with a rastaman. At first I found him nice and funny, but when he invited me to see dolphins or the giant turtles at “local prices” (prices that locals would pay, his friends, not tourists) when they were actuallly the same prices I’ve seen so far, I understood that he only wanted what everyone here expects from mzungo, money. Plus he thought I’m dumb, apparently. As if in two days in Zanzibar I didn’t know how much a spice tour can cost. When he told me that I will soon find out that people here are much more kind and welcoming than people in Tanganyika (this is how Continental Tanzania was called until 1964, when Tanganyika and Zanzibar united in one republic), it annoyed be a bit. Because it is true that in Dar Es Salaam and Arusha I wouldn’t have gone out alone in the night, while here I’m not scared, but he can’t say the people I met so far weren’t kind and spontaneous. He thinks they won’t be the same country for much longer, because everyone wants a separation. Here in Zanzibar maybe. He was born Muslim, but now he’s rastafan or whatever it’s called (and I don’t know what type of religion it is; he does it because tourists know he’s a peaceful man and they ask him pot). He told me how here was built the first church of Eastern Africa, I don’t remember in which year, as to testify how they are open minded, even though they are Muslim for 98%. I wanted to ask his opinion about the four churches burnt down a few weeks ago, but I din’t have the chance. Mmmm… I din’t like hime. He says I can feel home. Well, I felt more home in Lindi or Kilwa. Here, in particular the gardens area, it seems all a tourist fishing.
Later I walked in the tiny alleys where I drank a cup of warm milk with an old man and life was light and serene again.
do you remember that time when coming back from the Etna we heard “Obsession” by Aventura on the radio? It was one of the first time we heard it and we liked it a lot; it wasn’t popular in our town yet, we could only hear it on the radio in the South of Italy. We stopped the car to dance by the road. Or maybe it is not true, but the wish to do it was so strong that in my memories it’s like it happened for real. I listened to it a few days ago, on my old mp3 that I only use when I’m traveling. So I thought about you.
Here it is. I like to travel alone, I think it’s easier to approach locals and be approached if you are alone, people are more curious and less shy. But it’s also nice to share beautiful moments with people you love. I have good memories, but you know my memory is not the best. Maybe for this reason I write. Maybe one day I will read my diaries and will think “really, I was in Tanzania??”. I’m a solitary person, but I need to talk to someone from time to time; and sometimes I get tired of writing. I spent a few boring afternoons in Lindi, there was no one to entertain me. I had taken the habit to watch terrible South-American soap operas. Now I’m much better. What I mean is that traveling is not always a bed of roses. And being alone makes you realize how precious the friendships you have at home are. This is all. Say hello to my other friends and my family. Tell them you are always with me.
Take corn flour, quantity depends on the water, not too much nor too little
Put flour on water
Wait for 2 seconds
Take a spoon and blend with a circular movement for 5 minutes
Ready
Here it is. So now I can make ugali at home. But I don’t really like it. It’s the favorite dish by many in Tanzania, the most common maybe because it’s cheap.
This recipe not really “detailed”, was the one Saidi the banana seller gave me in Kilwa.
When I meet some Westerners I feel particularly dirty and smelly. It’s better for me to avoid the Wazungo and stay here with my African friends.
I’m in Kilwa. Kilwa Masoko to be precise. There are 3 Kilwa, as far as I know. Kilwa Kisiwani, an island with Arabic ruins, apparently very interesting, but you can only visit it with a permit and a guide, and I can’t bother. Kilwa Kivinje, a small town with old Arabic buildings and a lively harbor, that I visited earlier today. And Kilwa Masoko, Kilwa the Market, where there’s not much to see but it’s the only place with guesthouses and hotels.
I arrived in Kilwa Masoko yesterday at about midday after a trip on a bus that kept me jumping for about 3 hours. There was a 5 year old kid that I thought would vomit. But he was good, and remained unperturbed and put together. After I left my bags at the small and cheap room I rented, I went to see some resorts listed in the Lonely Planet. The first one, that is also a camping site but you have to bring your tent (if they rented tents I would have probably gone there) seemed abandoned. I don’t know how they can ask for 85 USD per night in one of those cabins. There’s another one, even more expensive, with cabins (banda) on the beach, very nice. The best surprise was the Kimbilio Lodge, owned by an Italian and managed by a lady from Milan (and when she looked at me was when I felt dirty and smelly). It’s not on the Lonely Planet because it’s new. There were two Italian guests, quite young. The first Italian travelers that I meet. A beautiful place indeed. There are 6 cabins, right on the beach, with a garden and a restaurant with a terrace two meters from the water. A cabin is about 60 USD, already discounted (Elisabetta said, before I asked), and if you can share with another person that would be a good price. Lunch is 10 USD and fish dinner 20. It’s a bit out of budget for me, so I promised Elisabetta I would come back for a beer, as I can only afford that. So for lunch I went to a local restaurant to have my usual potatoes with fanta at less than one euro and I went back for a beer. And how much did they want me to pay? 5.000 Tsh! Which is 2.5€, not a lot, but in a local pub it costs 1.700 Tsh, and in the most expensive western place I’ve been so far it was 2.500. I could have paid 3.000, for the nice view and location, but 5.000??? For visitors only. Those who rent a cabin pay only 3.000. Sometimes I decide not to pay what in Italy I would normally pay just as a matter of principle. So I decided to give up the beer and those nice lounges on the terrace and I went to read 10 meters away, on the sand, at the shade of a palm tree, with my bottle of warm water. At 4 pm it began to get more crowded. People running and walking. Nice. The ocean was rough. I don’t know if I would have bathed; there was no one in the water, but this is normal.
In the evening I watched the match Italy-Croatia in a “tv-room” of the town, a hut with two big 41″ screens, one close to the other for I don’t know what reason, maybe just in case one explodes. We had to wait for the power to be back (in town there was the usual black-out) but I saw both goals. It looked as if they supported Italy, I heard them mentioning Balotelli a lot and when Pirlo scored they celebrated more than I did. But they celebrated in the same way when Croatia scored. I think they simply enjoy soccer. It’s probably their favorite sport. I see them often playing, in grass fields or at the beach, and they are quite good at it.
So today I was in Kilwa Kivinje, and this is what I wrote in my diary:
09.30am As soon as I arrived I went to the German Boma, a building of Arabic origins that was used by Germans as their headquarters. Like Mikindani, Kilwa Kivinje was also an important harbor and commercial centre. Today it’s a fishermen town. In front of the German Boma there’s the harbor, with a lot of small boats, and on the dock where I am sitting there’s the fun corner, where people play chess, smoke, drink whiskie and buy pot. I am here writing and they might be thinking I’m a journalist. Probably if I took my camera they would assault me. And they invited me to go away. Ok, I’m going to see the other stands, where there’s people making chai and frying fish. I am approached by Mahad, that takes me to a touristic tour of the town. When we go back to the frying place I buy two squids. A bit salty, but they are delicious. I often see them having breakfast with chai, chapati and either meat or fish. I also tried meat a couple of times, but it was always too hard. This squid is really good. Mahad takes me to have a chai in what seems his second home. He manages a fishing boat, so he spends most of his time at the harbor. He must earn some money because he wears a nice shirt and new shoes. After a bit comes a boy barefoot with super white teeth, and because he tells me he wants to learn English, I take my small English-Swahili dictionary and I try to correct his pronunciation while he reads in English. He’s cute, his persistance despite the clear boredom of people around us. If I didn’t need it, I would give him this little dictionary. Ramadhani is his name. He came to the stall with a bag full of fish. “You must have paid it some money!”. No, Mahad explains to me. He asked them around, one here and another there, and people gave them to him. People are kind to him. He’s almost adopted by the community. His fish are there, in the middle of the table, and anyone can take one. I like Kivinje. It’s a cute quiet town and people are very nice. From time to time someone comes to this stall to drink a chai and eat the fish they bought somewhere else.
12.20pm They are starting to cook now rice and vegetables. They are always cooking and washing, sitting on a small stool 5 cm from the floor, stoves on a fire lit on the sand. You eat surrounded by flies and bees, but nobody notices it. They offered me to taste a piece of octopus. Boiled. It’s good. So they can cook in different ways! So far I had only seen fried fish. Women here are really beautiful. And men too. Ramadhani is handsome. Mahad is cute, but he’s too short for me. He asks if I would marry a Tanzanian if he proposed. Well, usual where I come from you get to know somebody before you marry them… He wouldn’t care, because a Mzungo would be like a nice ornament, people would go to his home to see the white wife. A boy ate two krapfens with his tea. He picked up the smallest crumbs. From time to time he would spy on me from behind a jar. At 5 years old he seems already a little man, going to the restaurant alone to get some food. 2.10pm I love it. I’ve been here for 3 hours teaching English and learning Swahili with Ramadhani. To pay the rice he took out a bag full of 5.000 Tsh baknotes. Probably he does little jobs for the people of the harbor. He looks at my grey hair and laughs. I tell him he will be like this in 10 years, when he will be my age. No no, his hair will grow grey only when he’s 40.
7.05pm I’m at the Night Market in Kilwa Masoko. Saidi hold me here, talking. He calls me Katty Gianfranco, because Piazza is difficult for him to pronounce. He actually introduced himself as Saidi Khalifa, and Khalifa is his father’s name. He sells bananas. He hopes to be able to sell everything by 10pm, when the market closes. It’s a shame tomorrow I’m leaving, he wanted to teach me how to cook ugali. Yes, shame. I’m sitting on the bench near Saidi, a guy approaches and asks me how much the oranges cost. The smallest chunga mia moja, the largest mia mbili. I think I would sell a lot of fruit here.
I like some Tanzanian habits. For examples I discovered I like to drink a glass of warm milk in the evening. It was my dinner, with two krapfen. I’ve already eaten my portion of rice at lunch today. I eat an orange too, I thank Saidi and go to bed. Tomorrow the bus to Dar Es Salaam is at 5am. Will these early reveilles ever end?
I’m still in Lindi. The ocean convinced me to stay longer. Tomorrow I should leave, but I don’t know if I will be able to go. Kilwa, my next destination, is also by the ocean, but here the guesthouse is right on the beach and it’s nice to wake up in the morning and find myself here.
I spent the day relaxing. I woke up at 6.30 as usual. After breakfast I took a walk on a hill nearby to see Lindi from above. Very pretty, with the houses among the palm trees and the bay at the horizon. Then I spent three hours at a pub on the beach reading. I drank two fantas. Probably this is the reason why my stomach is so large, I drink too many sparkling and sweet drinks.
The beach was almost empty all day. But at 4.30pm it started to liven up. At that time it’s not too hot anymore and people go to the beach after work. Someone plays football, others run, some bath, fish with their hands, some boats come back with their catch to sell, there’s the usual group that sings and prays.
I’m sitting in a corner looking at all this. While he’s waiting for his turn at football, a boy dances. The women would like to take part to the fish auction, but they can’t stop dancing. The music call is too strong. The director of the auction doesn’t seem to mind too much because he is also dancing. They seem possessed. Someone asks something to the women, and they answer without stopping dancing and singing. They put a basket full of fish on their head and dance back home.
A little girl covers her eyes with her hands so she doesn’t see me. I must really scare her. Now she’s peeking from in between fingers. It’s not the first time a child cries seeing me. The closest they brought him to me, the hardest he cried. Poor boy… On my left they keep going with the gospel. They invited me to join them on the conga line, but I prefer to watch. Emmanuel comes closer “God Loves Your!”. J explains that they come to the beach to sing their gospels from Sunday to Tuesday. On Sunday morning there’s the Mass at the church on the hill if I want to join. I like this way of praying, with dances and songs, all excitement and involvement. Deborah and Sabrina are keeping me company. When I understand their names it means they are Christians.
Here comes a boy selling chungwa, oranges. I don’t want any, but I buy one each for my friends. While he peels an orange here comes another child. At the end it’s ten oranges, divided among about 20 kids, and there are none left (in the meantime looking at those juicy oranges I had decided I wanted one too). We take some pictures, but there’s always someone doing a face, I don’t understand why they always do it.
It’s almost dark. I go to town for rice and vegetables. I also accept a passion fruit juice, which probably has some water in it, I’m expecting some consequences. I go back to the guesthouse and the boy at the reception wants to talk to me. He wants to teach me some Swahili. So sweet! If I found someone willing to teach me Swahili during the day I would probably stay longer. And here we are at the usual questions. He is 24 and not married. He can’t marry, his life is too bad. First he has to become the boss. From receptionist to boss, I hope it won’t take him too long.
9pm, Na kwenda kulala (I’m going to sleep). What a beautiful languate Swahili is!!
