Zanzibari Christmas

Zanzibar. The very name sounds exotic. The streets are narrow, jetting off at odd angles, strung with tattered flags. Men wear the robes and caps of the Muslim faith. Women wear full burkas, with only their kohl rimmed eyes showing. We are in Stone Town for 3 days, over Christmas Eve. The mosques are far more abundant than churches, and the call to prayer reverberates throughout sunlit alleys far more often than occasional carols heard from open shop windows. Everywhere is the smell of cloves, sweet and spicy and blending with the stink of meat left in the sun and the underlying odor of fish. The market itself is a riot of items, far more variety than we see in Zambia. There is dorean, a spiny fruit which smells of sulfur, has flesh the texture of (as one woman put it, unfortunately) “fat on meat,” and tastes like nothing so much as garlic bananas. Jackfruits piled high, as large as watermelon, drip sticky white sap. There are bags of vanilla beans, cumin, and chili powder next to tables with dried octopus (octopi?), stacked like pancakes. 

 The food is delicious; curries thick with coconut milk and fresh spices, prawns, grilled octopus, fish of all kinds, ice tea flavored with limes and honey, coffee brewed Arabic-style with real milk, coconut rice, spicy ginger gelato, Tusker and Sarangeti beer. Bellies full and bags heavy with scarves and spice packets, we head to Jambiani, on the east of the island. Our van blows a tire halfway there, and we wait by the side of the road for an hour or two while cars stop and men pile out to help our beleaguered driver. Finally, we arrive in the village, which consists of a number of houses (all, it seems, have crumbled on at least one side; apparently repairs become less urgent when the climate is balmy), around 5 restaurants, and a collection of beach bungalows for the mzungus. 

We have rented out the entire bottom floor of a large guesthouse, run by a cheerful, small Zanzibari man named Dude (doo-day) who sports Hawaiian print board shorts and Von Dutch tees, and pads around like a helpful house gnome delivering fresh bread and instant coffee. He takes us sailing after a few days in his mango tree boat (apparently, the wood lasts longer). It’s a catamaran with a sail sown of hand stitched tarps and rice sacks, and is constructed by deceptively simple engineering – lines and twine and random sticks all serve in place of the usual pulleys and cables.  He takes us toward the reef, and we weigh anchor long enough to snorkel. There are giant starfish and sea urchins the size of softballs, and hundreds of multicolored fish. In the evenings, we eat religiously at Coco Beach, a restaurant with amazing food and a sharp-tongued manager who at least once a meal manages to offend us. 

I spend most of our three days at the beach lying on the bench outside the house, with a fever and cough. It’s the most beautiful place to be sick, ever. By New Year’s, I’m back up, though I go to bed at a shameful 9 PM after eating dinner by candlelight on the beach. The next day, we catch a ferry to Dar es Salaam. The line to the ferry reminds me of a cattle drive, with everyone pushing to board the boat and secure a seat. Kate (who is about 5’ tall) says her feet didn’t touch the ground as she was borne along. The ferry makes us all slightly nauseous with the rolling, but they show Jackie Chan movies, which helps somewhat. When we arrive in Dar, we are amazed at the amenities. Chamomile tea! Gummy bears! Tabasco sauce! We stock our suitcases. Annie, Kate and I share a hostel room with Hank, an older man who works in the mining industry and comes to Dar monthly on business. He makes sweet, but awkward attempts at jokes, though clearly has lost the knack of talking to twenty-something females. He keeps a bow in a pair of cowboy boots in the corner, a plate of fresh chilies on the nightstand, and has four cell phones. After a blissfully air conditioned night, we head back to Lusaka. It’s been a good trip.