Zanzibar DIY
“You can go around the world by plane and see many things, but if you walk every centimeter you look inside yourself, you see who you are”
8/13
Namanga, 10.00. This sentence from Mike Horn, the walking man, as the Inuits call him, comes to my mind. Since at present devoid of any introspection velleity, I limit myself to think that only traveling by land I can really capture the sense of space changing under my feet. Flights have canceled all boundaries, all intermediate step.
I have never walked across a state border. I feel a slight sense of unease, I fear that something will go wrong. Mostly due to everything I read on the web before leaving, fakers, crooks, corrupt customs officers, bribes demands, etc. etc.. I project all this negativity to the crowd I see fidgeting on other side of the barriers, and really I do not know what to expect.
The driver makes us get off the bus, and explains that it will wait on the other side.
The first step is easy, it is only a matter of printing an exit stamp on the passport, and leave Kenya behind.
Soon after, it comes the time to dribble street vendors and other vultures offering illegal money exchange .. something already a bit more difficult, having to balance somewhere in the middle between the complete indifference which denotes rudeness, and the instinctive kindness which instead could be mistaken for weakness.
First difficulty, I hesitate a moment when the Immigration Officer asks me how long I will stay in Tanzania. Really, I do not know yet. It depends on a lot of things. It would be enough to say the bare minimum for tourist visas, however, for some reason, I get out a “as long as I have money” which in Africa seems to be a good answer.
His smile is huge while writing 30 days, he welcomes me in his country and askes me $ 20. Only $ 20, not 50, as I expected, and which is the sum which just shelled out a a guy with the Scottish flag stitched on the worn backpack in front of me… Even if I do not to raise objections, $ 30 difference is a huge sum , I am still unsure about the procedure accuracy. The Scottish gentleman assumes that the discount is due to the fact that I am a woman. A South African tourist, much more realistic, intervenes in the discussion, and make us notice the existence of a sign which specifies, nation by nation, the amount to be paid for entry into the country. UK $ 50, Italy 20, South Africa 60. They do not ask me the yellow fever vaccination certificate.
They search our bags. Due to my small luggage (the flying company has lost my big bag in Kenya), I pass unscathed.
If you are curious about my luggage, read here
Other smiles when answering to a specific question, I reply that I do not carry any liquor because I do not drink alcohol. Are these ones the terrible and depraved tax collectors mentioned in the the Lonely Planet??
I lose a lot of time to find my bus, and I have no time left to go to the toilet or to change money.
The Scandinavian Express lines are reputed to be the best buses of Tanzania, but they are way less comfortable than the Mexican and Thai ones .. Drinks and snacks are offered on board.
The first stop is Arusha, about three hours after the border. It’s the starting point for safaris to the Serengeti and Ngorongoro. The bus station is a mess, a jumble of diverse humanity. Everybody sells everything, it’s crazy. An incredible bedlam, like an anthill, a chaos. I see even a lady, stretching one foot out the window of her matatu, who gets her feet nails lacquered by a beautician.
I get off the bus with the face of a person who is looking for a toilet urgently, I look so upset that everybody indicates the position without me having to utter a word. Two shady figures stand between me and the coveted door of the latrine, hot, dirty and smelly. They want money. I tell them that I only have Kenyan currency, and thankfully they let me go …
Second stage, Moshi. I try to see the Kilimanjaro peering anxiously right and left, a neighbor kindly informs me that I can’t see it, in this season, as it is always covered by low clouds.
I bow definitely my eyes and I dedicate myself to the contemplation of everything passes in front of my eyes level. For the first time in my life, I see the baobabs. I look at the life that flows in the villages beside the road. The mud huts, the walls supported by a framework of regular and thickly entwined branches, the children, who, in their neat uniforms, play in schoolyards; several men lounging in the shade of trees, others who work in their shops in the street. I am intrigued by tailors, and their old sewing machines, positioned on the sidewalk, next to stacks of colored cloths.
Sometimes the bus is forced to stop because of work in progress, or checkpoints; here they put spiked bars on the ground, just to deter those with malicious intents to press on the accelerator. Taking advantage of the temporary stop, sellers of oranges, fruits, seeds, water approach the bus windows. I am so hungry, but I have no money, damn ..
The fourth stop, Mombo, it’s really interesting. They are well organized. At one edge of the dirt square there are numerous stalls of fruit and vegetables, with the goods geometrically and artistically arranged. On the other edge, a self service restaurant which prepares instantly ugali, fried potatoes, meatballs, rice, whatever, the costs are ridiculously low, half Euro …. An Indian passenger, hearing that I can’t buy anything, unfortunately, because I have no money, kindly proposes me to exchange my Kenyan shillings. Here I am in possession of 10 thousand Tanzanian shillings, about $ 10, which however I can’t waste because I have to sleep and eat tonight as well …. So I just focus on some cookies and bananas.
The bathrooms are wonderfully invaded by swarms of flies. A large room with a tiled channel in the middle, without any door or wall, makes me figure out that is the right place. I had heard similar stories about India. Fortunately, in a closet fitted with a door lock and I can see a squat toilet, so I hide there, very glad not to do everything in public….
We reach the outskirts of Dar es Salaam at 20.00, and it is already completely dark. Streams of humans flock to the sides of the ring road, a frenzy of stalls and tingling of gestures, gatherings of voices and faces, the only source of light are candles. Only a few tin shacks have electric light, very rare the bluish screens of televisions.
I will share a room at Safari Inn with Johanna, an Englishwoman traveling on the same bus. She lives in Eritrea, and she is a teacher. Since the room has already been paid by a friend of hers at the time of booking, she does not even want my half of the money. In any case, in total it would have costed 12 thousand tsh.
Since during the day we did not eat almost anything we are really hungry. We ask for a restaurant and they recommend us to the Jambo Inn, located nearby.
Gastronomic adventure to be remembered, insignificant prices, room full of people of all races, memorable mango milkshake, ice cubes that worry me a bit.
We would like to take a walk to stretch our legs after all the hours spent in the bus, but they advise not to do it, too dangerous. Too bad, because the street air is warm and thinly veiled by a pleasant humidity.
We return to the Safari Inn, the tv in the common room broadcasts the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games. For a moment I find myself catapulted into my usual European dimension.
On the stairs, ostentatious signs prohibit, with Binladen anathema tons, any kind of indecency with local whores. In reading the very old term “indecency” we burst into a sonorous laughter …
Rooms are just decent, but from the pipes warm water comes out, and a relaxing shower is all I need.
8/14
It becomes crucial to find a change and stock up with local currency. I go to Samora Avenue, the main commercial street in the city. The center of Dar Es Salaam is picturesque. My impression is that it’s less squalid than Nairobi, perhaps because here there are a sea, palm trees, a port, and then everything looks better …
I change a lot of money, 400 euro- As I read that in Stone Town is quite difficult to find someone who accepts travelers checks, better to take precautions ..
I go to the harbor to buy a ferry ticket. The Sea Horse company, the cheapest, costs $ 20 or 22500 tsh. The departure is scheduled at 12.30.
Returning to the guesthouse to collect my backpack, I pass in front of a used clothes stall, and I find something good for me. A white linen long-sleeve shirt, and beige long skirt with big pockets on the heaps. I bargain and I take them away for 7 thousand tsh.
No particular problems during the sea crossing, despite the uncomfortable plastic chairs and the human gathering. The weather is not that great, but at least it’s not raining and it’s hot. The afternoon torpor is suddenly shaken by a series of laughter coming from my neighbors, high school pupils accompanied by a teachers, I guess. They giggle indicating a mixed couple, an ugly and fat woman, and a younger black athletic man. She pinches his bottom. I do not understand whether the cause of the laugh are these effusions or the difference in races.
Approaching Zanzibar, the sky clears. While the island of spices contours become more delineated, a number of concerns begin to haunt my existence. Apart the fact that I have nothing booked, and so far nothing strange, what scares me particularly are the “papaasi”, people who, as I have deduced by reading other travel diaries, stick to you like crabs to propose hotels and other services from which they receive commissions. I would not be so much worried just for that, but the fact is that I read that some of them are drug addicts and can then become troublesome if ignored or treated rudely.
During the ferry mooring, I detach myself from a group of other white tourists, and I try to camouflage among a group of Tanzanians hoping to walk away unnoticed. Unfortunately, I can’t.
A man nearly forty-five, showing a card of Tanzanian Tourism Board, tells me I have to go for immigration. Yes, of course, a second time, even though I already made my visa in Namanga.
I try to waste time during the immigration process hoping that the guy is fed up and goes to bother elsewhere, but unfortunately as soon as I go out I find him waiting.
I think I could get rid of him by inventing to have some hotel reservation, but I don’t have any, so I just let him help me.
It brings me to the Victoria House in Vuga Street, 12000 tsh. It is located near the African House, in a quiet street. Along the way, I stop in front of other guesthouses, which are already full, and are not any better.
While I was in the boat, I got to know more about “internal transport” talking with some natives. Apparently, it’s difficult to move around from place to place with public transport, and I have to always go via Stone Town.
Dalla-dalla, tuk-tuk, songthaew, bemo, a different name in each country for these pick up who are used to carry around human beings. The local version has sides decorated like the grates of the Andalusian balconies.
From the “papaasi” I purchasae also a ticket for a collective taxi to Jambiani, 6000 tsh, I suspect it might be a rip off, but I think 6 Euro are not this great tragedy.
My room is huge, very well ventilated, full of light, with two large windows. Too bad it’s fairly infested with mosquitoes, and mosquito net over the bed is full of holes. This is why I take it off and put mine. Too bad also that the plumbing is approximate, and when I open the tap water to clean my face then my feet get completely washed. I hope when I’ll flush the toilet something unexpected will not happen…. I do some laundry.
Finally, I go out and I dedicate myself to the exploration of Stone Town city. As architecture it is not just like I imagined, the buildings need some restructuring, there is a sense of grandeur now in decadence. Stone Town is like Brigitte Bardot, a beautiful woman who now carries on her face the signs of aging and does nothing to hide them…
Despite this, the atmosphere in the narrow alleys is special, I walk and zigzag aimlessly, without haste, without a map, drifted by visual, auditory and olfactory sensations.
I arrive at Forodhoni Gardens, the main square. I purchase two sarongs, one short and one long. Then I enjoy the sunset. Among the flower beds dozens of stalls offering fish, vegetables, fruit, desserts, drinks are getting ready for dinner. You eat standing or sitting on the ground, at the light of kerosene lamps. I take fish skewers and then various raw vegetables, tomatoes, onions, lettuce, cabbage. 1500 tsh. As a digestive, more for curiosity than anything else, I take a ginger tea which inflames my digestive system, as I had swallowed a volcano, I try to dilute it with cold water but the result does not change.
When I recover, I take a walk among the exhibitions of handicrafts, while chatting with a local boy who works in an Italian resort at Kiwengwa, and speaks my language. At first I suspect that he wants to pick me up, but after a while, however, I realize that he is only just and genuinely curious to share something with me. We sit down to eat a watermelon, he asks me how I felt traveling on a matatu, walking alone in the streets of Nairobi and Nakuru, talking to the people.
I tells him about Jambiani, and he approves my choice. There no real reason why I prefer to go there. Simply, it is a place, the more enchanting I read on the Routard, which has not yet been reached and upset by mass tourism. It has remained itself, in short, it has not sold its soul.
8/15
If good day starts in the morning, today it will be a shitty day.
I step on the Victoria House terrace and wait for my breakfast. The view is great, unfortunately the dirt is everywhere. And I’m definitely not a picky eater …. The tables are covered with dusty and sticky oilcloth which have not been washed for ages. They bring me a tray. Moldy bread with two cubic centimeters of butter, jam, omelets and a closed thermos with hot water for tea. The plastic sugar bowl is filthy, and there are ants inside. Moreover, the thermos lid is sealed so tightly that I can’t unscrew it, so I have to run after the waiter down stairs to get some help. It takes me two seconds, roughly. When I return to my table I find almost no trace of food, while a group of crows on the railing looks at me mockingly and gratefully. The bread was so disgusting that they did not steal it … .. I desist from telling the story to the waiter hoping to move him to pity, I have no strength…
The taxi picks me up at 8.00 punctually. On board, a pair of Spaniards who will stop at Paje and another girl who, like me, is alone and directed to Jambiani. The latter attracts my attention, because she is dressed in khanga like the local women. She says her name is Ana, and she is a doctor experienced in tropical diseases working for an NGO in a Mwanza hospital. She stays in Zanzibar for the weekend only. She looks like Emmanuelle Béart. We get to Paje, the Spaniards leave, and two Germans come on board.. Unexpectedly, instead of leaving, the drivers start a conversation on the mobile phone. I take this opportunity to look carefully at the beach : superb, a breathtaking sea, aquamarine color, a blinding white beach, it seems snow, almost.
The minivan leaves on the unpaved road, but it continues to stop at every guesthouse, I guess they are looking for some occasional customers.
My traveling companions are starting to get anxious. As soon as the Germans realize Ana and I are directed to Jambiani, while they made arrangements to be driver quicky and directly to Stone Town, have a nervous breakdown… Ana complaints that if she knew they were so slow she would have taken a dalla-dalla, and paid one-tenth.
Thinking back to my breakfast, nothing seems so tragic, in comparison.
The two Tanzanian drivers, trying to calm the Germans, propose them to wait on the beach, while me and Ana will be taken to our destination, so they can still stay in the sun and make the last swim.
The road from Paje heading southbound is nothing more than a dirt track, full of potholes and dust.
Finally, we get to Jambiani and they leave us at north, close to a complex of bungalows where they would force us to stay, the Visitors’ Inn. The price is 10 thousand tsh, and when I insinuate that for that price I can maybe find something better, they get ironic, boasting of being able to do their job well.
Ana instead speaks Swahili and begins to bargain. I feel disadvantaged, a bit because of the language and a little bit because I am less attractive, so I say hello to Ana and to the “papaasi”. I receive in response from the latter a derisive laughter. I turn back and tell them to fuck off.
The Jambiani coast is almost deserted, wide, long, so white that it makes my eyes pop
There is low tide, the sea has retired for at least half a kilometer away, in the distance I see a bustle of women and men who traffic with bags of seaweed, nets, paddles, boats, canvas, sails
To my right hand side small groups of bungalows and palm trees alternate. Besides these ones, I can see the stone houses of the village where the locals live.
Walking on the soft sand under the blazing sun, despite my backpack is not heavy, makes me hot and thirsty. I can’t find anything less than 15,000 tsh, or I’m told there is no vacancy in the cheap ones. Apart from Ana I have not seen other tourists ..
While plodding like one who got lost in the desert and follows a mirage, I am approached by a boy who, in broken Italian, speaks to me. Oh my God, another “papaasi” !!! I am exhausted !! This one is kind, though, and unobtrusive; slowly takes me to a candid construction, thatched roof, arches on the ground floor in front of the veranda and a balcony on the first. The style is a bit Hispanic, and the name, “Hacienda de la luna”, reminds me more about Tulum…
The two downstairs rooms have just been finished, there is smell of fresh wood, mattresses have a plastic top, the bathrooms are immaculate, no hot water, toilet brushes still enveloped in their plastic bags, everything looks clean, tidy. I go upstairs, the view from the terrace is magnificent.
The owners are absent, so I take arrangements with two young boys who are their factotums.
15 thousand Tsh for the first day, then they will make discount.
I leave the luggage in the room and go back to the first floor. Beside, not very far from the beach, there are some houses where some veiled women make seaweed to dry, and care for their children. Some are returning from the sea, carrying heavy sacks on their backs, others go to the beach with the bags in hand, a couple of men with bicycles pass where the sea has retreated and remain some pools of water, the children play.
I feel catapulted into the reality of a Zanzibari village. I go down for a walk on the beach, it’s hot, but I do not want to stay in bikini, everything around makes me believe that maybe nudity is out of place, and I am the one who has to adapt to local customs. So I keep on my sarong, and, moreover, I cover my shoulders. In the distance, almost near the reef, I catch a glimpse of some white people, they are not in bathing suit too.
There are no shops, no stalls, a few restaurants here and there, very simple local style. No loud music, people talk softly. I stop at Al Hapa, and order fish and chapati, price 2500 tsh, I ask if I can lie down on the beach while waiting. Finally I take off my clothes. After a while Ana arrives; from the first moment I met her, she had not seemed particularly sociable and eager for companionship. To my surprise, however, she lays her sarong next to mine and asks me if she can stop and eat with me, goes inside the restaurant and order my same things.
Lunch comes ready within half an hour. The fish is some kind of grouper with spices, the chapati is soft and tasty, more like an omelette, seasoned with onions. Ana tells me that the room bargaining was quite depressing, and she remained only because overwhelmed by the urge to lie down immediately to the sun. She would not have made it to go on as I did. Her resort is the largest in Jambiani, and is almost entirely occupied by Italians, she says. I notice a hint of annoyance in her voice.
After lunch, we have few words with the three guys in the restaurant, one of them is the area responsible of a national project that aims to the prevention of diseases. When he realizes to be in front of a western doctor expert in tropical diseases he starts a structured discussion, interesting even for me who I am not a doctor, but I’m still curious and sensitive to the issue.
Ana tells me that she caught malaria, I’m not doing any kind of chemoprophylaxis …
I spend the afternoon in her company, in the meantime the sea regains its lost ground
We sit on the strip of sand in front of the Visitors’ Inn
We are often interrupted by “beach boys”, as they call them, who want to sell us some stuff. We ignore them, and they leave.
At about 17.30 I decide to go back to my guesthouse passing through the village, and not through the beach. The village is still immediately behind the beach and the strip of small hotels. The houses are built with a grey limestone, I would almost say it’s some coral mixed with lime. I see two or three small shops selling basic necessities and fruit, as big as a telephone booths.
The routes are made of sand, there are no cars, of course. A lot of children play in the street, many women are sitting outside on the perimeter walls of their homes; very friendly, they smile and greet. Some make a feeble attempt to make conversation, which fails soon, since we have no language in common.
The general atmosphere in this place gives rise to a deep feeling of affection towards it.
The fish and chapati eaten at 15.00 filled me, so I consume a light dinner at the Coco Beach Cottages restaurant. Not advisable, some thin soup and salad cost me 4500 tsh, a theft, here …
After dinner I regain the balcony of my guesthouse to gaze at the stars, they are so bright that seems to float within walking distance from my nose. I lose myself thinking about parallel universes, until I collapse in my bed
8/16
My plentiful breakfast consists of tea, bread, butter, jam, with the addition of fresh fruit.
Ali, one of the two guys who take care of the house in the absence of the owners, buzzes around me without any apparent reason. The dialogue is quite complicated, his English is broken, I do not speak a word of Swahili.
At the time of going out to look for Ana, he appears in front of me holding a copy of Marquez’s “No One Writes to the Colonel” which I read a few weeks before leaving, coincidentally.
To my surprise, the book is written in Italian. Ali, in half English and half Italian, tells me he is studying our language. It shows me a notebook with the basic rules of our grammar, the times of regular verbs, auxiliaries, pronouns, articles, etc. etc..
He tells me that some time before an Italian girl taught him the a-b-c and left the book for practicing.
I decide that Ana can wait, since we did not fix a real rendez-vous, and I assist Ali while reading, I correct the pronunciation, and I write in his notebook the translation of the words he does not know.
While I’m trying to write better than I can, I bend a page under my sweaty elbow. Ali is worried. I feel a little mortified, more than anything else for my indifference toward a meaningless greasy exercise book, which represents for this Tanzanian boy the only form of communication, knowledge and culture to the outside world.
This makes me realize how seriously he takes this lesson, so I decide to assume an attitude of a highly qualified teacher… Unique compromise, I ask Ali if we can move from the shadow of the porch area and put our chairs in the sun at the beach.
To all those who pass by, including beach boys, Ali tells something with a special light in the eyes, showing the book and then me and jumping from one to the other in rapid succession. I feel proud.
After the lesson, and before leaving for my walk, I tell the two “managers” I’m going to stop for other two nights, I try to ask for a discount, and they offer me 10000 ths.
Now I have decided: I love passionately Jambiani, this small, quiet microcosm away from the world and from mass tourism.
As I walk on the beach, I am approached by a rasta, one of the three men with whom I talked yesterday of illnesses prevention at Al Hapa. I think he is one of those who take around people by boat.
This morning he has nothing to do, so he starts to make questions about Italy, the Western world, globalization and other ills that plague the modern era. It’s difficult to explain to my Zanzibari friend why western people are suffering from depression and anxiety. He opens his eyes and insists “what sense has competition?” He invites me for the next day for a trip on the reef at the modest price of 3000 tsh.
Another beach boy, who saw me when I was giving lessons to Ali, leads me to his house, and introduces me to the sisters. He explains that local families, for 2500 tsh, at evening cook fish and other things in their houses for tourists, and try to interact and talk in some way.
It seems to me an excellent idea, but for the evening I have other plans with Ana and so I decline.
The meeting with her is at the usual restaurant Al Hapa, where, however, we eat less than the day before.
In the evening we choose the Visitors’ Inn restaurant. Fish, rice, tomatoes and Stoney for 3500 tsh.
Ana on the next day returns to Mwanza. She will take the night ferry from Stone Town, to save the cost of the hotel in Dar Es Salaam.
8/17
Ana passes in my guesthouse to say farewell in the early morning. After some Italian lessons with Ali, I go to look for Louis and his mango wooden boat. It is a kind of canoe with outrigger, like the Polynesian boats. The sails are a mosaic of plastic bags sewn together
We arrive at the reef at the peak of low tide, some local fishermen are trying to chase octopuses and other fishes
I have lunch at the Pingo Restaurant, where I wait about an hour for one lousy chapati stuffed with chicken. It tastes rancid. I walk up to the south end of Jambiani, after Kimte Beach Inn, which has a lovely bar on the beach.
A beach boy offers to take me tomorrow to Kendwa, my next destination, I only have to pay for the gasoline.
In the evening I am a bit sad to leave this place so out of the world. The stars keep on floating in the sky. Like the other days, after sunset, the wind is getting stronger, and it gets cool.
Ali is attentively following a program broadcast from an old transistor radio, he tells me it’s about the soccer championship matches. I wonder what kind of life have people here, not even a TV to watch their favorite sport. Louis this morning asked me “would you like to live here”, I replied that I never would stop here forever. But I keep on being melancholyc.
I return for dinner at Coco Beach Restaurant, the one that ripped me off two nights ago. Laziness more than anything else, this is the closest restaurant to my guesthouse. I meet an Italian guy from Padua, more or less my age, handsome. Traveling alone with no fixed programs, like me. I join him at his table. When I talk about Kendwa, he gets convinced to pop up there as well in the next days.
8/18
Ali takes a photo with my Nikon, and asks to send it to him. While I smile, I think that I must absolutely find a Swahili-Italian dictionary and a grammar to include with the picture.
The car that was supposed to take me to Kendwa breaks, so I greet Ali in a hurry, and it’s better this way, because I have a lump in my throat, and I am about to cry, I stop the first minivan which passes in the village and jump on it. The race ends in Stone Town at the Forodhoni gardens. Seeing me pretty determined to walk to the dalla dalla terminal, a taxi offers me 2000 tsh for Kendwa. Since I have to wait one hour before his departure, I go around some ticket offices in the harbor area. I see the sign of the Mega Speed Line Ferries, and I remember having read on the Routard guide this line operates on the Zanzibar – Mombasa route. I would like if possible avoid another 13 hours bus ride to Nairobi, and meanwhile I would see briefly the Kenyan coast. Unfortunately I discover that the Mega Speed Line has suspended this type of connection, and to be sure I ask at least 3 or 4 people in different offices.
My minibus leaves Stone Town, with me a couple of Brits apparently very young, two really lovely guys, John and Sarah.
The last stretch of road towards Kendwa is unpaved and full of potholes. Three kilometers that seem to never end.
Arrived, same old story. We stop in front of the Kendwa Rocks, the largest resort, the drivers would like to force us to stay here, at a cost of $ 30 per bungalow.
I do not hide my irritation. I pay my share with a 5 thousand note, and the driver pretends not to have any exchange. John pays for me and tells me not to worry, for sure we will meet again on the beach.
In the adjacent resort all $ 10 bandas are sold out, and only some elegant houses are left.
Nearby are the Malaika Bungalows, five in all, they look spartan but graceful. On the porch stands a huge cot made with braided rope, to lie down to admire the sea
The buildings seem fairly new, the interior is simple but they did their best to decorate it. In the bedroom is a triumph of pink-white, colored kangas hanging from the windows, immaculate bed nets. No hot water and no electricity, they leave me an oil lamp
We settle 12 000 ths, including breakfast, I pay immediately. I shower as long as it is still clear outside, I would not trust my abilities to repeat the gesture at the oil lamp light. Then I go back on the beach, exploring and looking for something else for the next day which has at least a small generator.
Kendwa is a small village. There are no sea weeds scattered around, and the beach even at low tide is huge, there is room for everyone, groups of young guys playing rugby, others playing volleyball, others soccer. All in all there are no more than 6 or 7 resorts, no luxury, the clientele is the Northern European backpackers standard.
All restaurants are on the beach, the prices printed on the menus are slightly more expensive than Jambiani.
The last complex of bungalows, the one with the cheapest restaurant, closed at present because the chef is in Stone Town, is called “Le toits en palms” and looks ideal for me. It has a beautiful garden full of hibiscus and bouganvileas, various papaya trees, some beach shaded by trees with hammocks, the bungalows are very nice on the outside, inside a little bit less than what they promised, but I see light bulbs, and this is enough for me … .. I book for the next day, 10 thousand tsh.
I meet John and Sarah, very pissed since they felt brainwashed and forced to stays were the touts wanted. I return them the taxi money, and I point my future bungalows, they say theirs is worse and pay $ 30, so they decide to move here and leave a small deposit.
The restaurants are simple wooden buildings with sand floor, illuminated by candles and torches. The most expensive dish, octopus with vegetables and rice, is about 6500 tsh. The bonfires on the beach give a special atmosphere.
I decide to stop at the White Sands Resort restaurant, lit and decorated in Moroccan style, red lamps and sofas. Tuna and potatoes, and yummy banana and cinnamon dessert, 6500 tsh.
The Kendwa Rocks, next door, is the only one with bar and music, hammocks and pool table. Freak and relaxed environment. For tonight, I decide not to stop. With torch in my hand, I return to my bungalow.
8/19
After breakfast, I move. The weather is not so good. I get acquainted with Lidia, an Italian girl.
I notice a discreet contrast between Kendwa and Jambiani regarding atmospheric conditions. The southeast is constantly swept by winds, which keep the sky clear.
The North is more sheltered, and attracts all sorts of clouds.
I am informed that Nungwi is 20 minutes walking on the beach at low tide, which ends at about 14.00.
I walk around, I’m curious about a huge building on stilts that rises north, flanked by a kind of horrifying cement building. Lidia tells me it is an Italian hotel. The garden definitely is very nice, but the construction looks like a pigeon house, and it’s like a punch in the eye. There is a great confusion of masons and carpenters, sound of hammers, saws, drills, while some private guards keep away the curious people.
I try to figure out how this little place will be upset with the arrival of a huge mass of people. Too bad, it looks so peaceful now …
The day continues idly enough, but fortunately I found Lidia to talk to, and I do not have even to make the effort to do it in English! For dinner we would like to try the Wind Rose, which is desert, so we go back to White Sands.
8/20
A splendid sun allows me to admire Kendwa in all its dazzling beauty, finally
Already from my bungalow terrace there would be enough view to keep me busy in contemplation for at least half a day … .. turquoise sea, white sand, scarlet hibiscus and coral and fuchsia bougainvilleas…
After a fairly poor breakfast, and I I’m not a big eater, I go for a walk in Nungwi.
Here, unlike the east coast, I can always swim without making kilometers on foot, even with low tide, so every now and then I dip to cool off.
Nungwi is huge, compared to Kendwa, and overpopulated. I do not like it. The sea is less beautiful than in Kendwa, there are sea weeds abandoned on the shore, the beach is dirty, and it smells of rotten fish and sewer, I think because there are too many bungalows. The standard customer seems to be middle class travelers more than penniless backpacker.
I’m almost certain that somewhere there must also be a village with locals, but soon I give up and go back to Kendwa. The beach near our guesthouse is empty, and I enjoy it a lot. To be honest, the view of the huge restaurant on stilts disturbs me a bit, but at least it is still uninhabited, so better enjoy the solitude before it’s too late. Lidia proves to be a good company, so the hours pass quickly and almost without realizing it we find ourselves in front of a beautiful sunset. The only thing missing in Jambiani..
Having eaten only bananas bought on the beach, we get hungry earlier than usual, so we can find a place for dinner at the Sunset Bungalows, discarded until now because of the incredible crowds waiting for a table. Soon we understand the reason for such crowding, the food is delicious, much better than White Sands. Just to give an idea of prices, a portion of chicken, vegetables and rice costs about 5 thousand tsh.
After dinner, we go to Kendwa Rocks to listen to music and socialize.
8/21
We wake up under a grey sky, which soon turns into a mighty downpour at breakfast time. We do not do even have time to inveigh against the bad luck that, as they had come, the clouds dissipate leaving a very clear sky.
Not knowing what to do, Lidia and I go back to Nungwi, where take the opportunity to call Italy from a public payphone, then buy some fresh mangoes, peeled , diced and placed in a plastic bag ready to be swallowed . While we are intent to savour them, with the juice that drips everywhere, since obviously they did not give us even a stick, I meet again the fascinating men from Padua. I could not imagine a less appropriate moment to meet him, but he ignores the sticky coating which covers my chin, mouth, hands, kisses me amicably, and escort us up to Kendwa.
Finally it gets the time to dine at Toits en Palme, the cook is back from Stone Town. 3500 tsh a portion of chicken and chips.
8/22
Return day to Stone Town both for me and Lidia. Since yesterday we were not worried at all to secure a seat on a minivan, we are left in the middle of a road because all the vehicles are already fully booked by tourists more farsighted than us.
So we have to traipsing for a while on a dirt path, (we also cross a poor village where we distribute exercise books and pens) till the junction for Nungwi, where we jump on a dalla-dalla. Hoorray! It’s since the beginning of the holiday that I dreamed of being carried by one of these wrecks. I count 23 people inside, in a density of bodies that could be the envy of the Tokyo subway at rush hour … People, fishes, fruits, baskets, backpacks, an incredible tangle..
We get out in the middle of the usual local market, I say goodbye to Lidia who remains to sleep here for one night, I go to the port to buy a ticket and then, waiting, I eat a light lunch at the “Archipelago” Restaurant. From its pleasantly breezy terrace I admire the beautiful view of the bay while I taste chicken and fries chatting with two French guys, who are directed like me to Dar Es Salaam with the same ferry.
The crossing takes me by surprise, because I was thinking of going to the usual ferry and instead I find myself on a kind of speed boat, where most of the passengers are intent to puke. This show put me in a bad mood, I do not know where to turn my eyes that I see people who vomit. Holy God, why didn’t they take any medicine??? At the berth in the harbours, all plastic bags and their disgusting contents are elegantly … thrown into the sea, with perfect nonchalance, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
I overnight at Jambo Inn (14 thousand tsh) and I have dinner with two French in the same restaurant that I had already attended at the first leg.
8/23
The shirt I had washed and hung out to dry the night before is still wet. I decided to wear it anyway hoping that the warmth of my body will triumph where the night breeze failed.
According to some websites written by inveterate travelers, it seems that this is the secret of light traveling. The impact with the fresh air at 6.00 is not the most pleasant, but then my back gets used …. and in a short time the shirt is dry and, interestingly, the smell of soap remains more persistent than usual.
The coach of the Scandinavian Express is waiting for me to take me back to Nairobi, where I arrive at around 21.00.
During the 12 hours or more of travel, I stop for a moment to metabolize what I lived on the island of spices. Kendwa is beautiful, white sand beaches, turquoise seas, nothing to say. Yet, it seems to me that in comparison to Jambiani it has not a soul, is the classic destination that could be anywhere in the world, and nothing changes. Jambiani is a world in itself, unique and different. A place where you can watch, speak, understand, learn and confront. To be explored slowly.
The story continues in Kenya section, Chronicle of a safari foretold