I boarded the
ferry to the island on a hot afternoon, the day of which I can’t remember. I had
just barely recovered from an almighty stomach bug and I was hot and a little
irritated. I walked down to the ferry port with the Irish couple whom I had met
in Malawi. She commented on how big and bulky my backpack was and somehow I
felt like I had failed at being a true back packer by obviously packing too
much stuff. The ferry ticket cost me $25. I can’t remember how much that was in
Tanzanian Shillings and I became more irritated that I was forced to pay in
dollars just because I was a foreigner. In fact this ticket controversy almost
made me choose not to go to Zanzibar as I though it would just be one mass of
tourist paraphernalia. At the last minute, and I think purely from a sense of
academic loyalty as I had studied Stone Town in my second year of Anthropology
at Rhodes University, I chose to go.
My
$25 dollar ticket entitled me to first class passage and my irritation at the
ticket price quickly dissipated as I lay luxuriously in a comfy chair in an
air-conditioned cabin that broke the humidity of the day. I remember getting seasick
and wondering how quickly we would arrive. The blaring Arabic prayer TV program
made sleeping difficult so I spent time breathing deeply to avoid vomiting for
some period of the trip.
And
then there was a whisper, a shiver of movement through the passengers on the
boat and many started moving outside. I caught whispers about the island
appearing soon and so I joined the crowed at the railings on deck.
The
island grew slowly out of the grey and choppy sea. I will try to explain it without sounding
cliqued and soppy. It was as if the whole island was emitting a golden shine.
Whether from sunlight or some other ephemeral magical light that the island
emitted itself I can’t say. The front of the island appeared box-like, the
straight up walls of the crumbling buildings growing right out of the water
edge, with dhows and biggest boats clicking together in the wake of the ferry.
Murmured gasps ran through the passengers on the deck. There was a smell –
salty rotten water smells mixed with something… something not quite there, but
which I am sure was the sweat and spice of the people living on the island.
There were few people visible on the beach as work had not yet ended for many.
And yet there was still a sense of movement and aliveness that I sensed as we
neared the harbour and docked.
Funnelling
out of the ferry onto the heaving harbour deck I had to jump from the ferry to
the deck as the waves lifted and dropped each. A small feat with my supposedly
over packed backpack! Immediately immigrations officers stopped us to check our
passports. My heart stopped. I had stamped and sorted my visa when I crossed
into Tanzania from Malawi and I thought that Zanzibar was part of Tanzania. I
would learn the quirky history and subsequent running of the island of Zanzibar
and so the passport check was one of these strange quirks. The official
welcomed me into Stone Town with another passport stamp and the Irish couple
and I walked out the harbour.
Well
that was what we wanted to do but the wall of people with their fingers curled
through the fence shouting taxi – Hotel - Where are you going – momentarily pushed
us back and my ears became blocked. Thankfully Dulla of the backpackers with
whom I had prearranged accommodation silently beckoned us through the crowd and
across the road. The din, already muffled, died away as we crossed the square
with the big tree covering it in shade. We turned left at an undefined place in
the square, passed a crumbling wall, a small corner shop and stopped in front
of a flat-faced house. Dulla unlocked the gate and we began climbing up the
steepest flight of stairs ever. On the first floor Dulla showed us our rooms.
Mine had thick mattress on the floor with a roof fan whoosh whooshing
rhythmically. Two windows with window seats opened onto the alleyway outside.
The noise of the outside life rose slowly into my room.
That
night we ate at the waterfront food market Forodhani and slept soon after. The
town however stayed up much later than I did and I woke occasionally to loud
sounds and shouts. The town had not been asleep for long when loud hooting and
running feet woke me early. Then the call to prayer echoed over the town and
soon thereafter the scooters and the running feet died down again. I sat on the
window seat and watched the town continue to wake up and start the day, the men
and boys soon finishing in the mosque and adding to the foot traffic along the
alleyway. I remember thinking that this is one fantastic place into which I had
stumbled.
