In Which I Eat Fresh Sea Food, Talk To Many People and See Some Humongeous Tortoises

October 21^st: Wednesday

I am awoken at 4:30 by a Muslim crier who sounds like he is right outside my window, which he probably is. I get up around 5:30 and dress. I leave my hostel to go explore the city before breakfast. I have to rouse the owner, to let me out of the locked door. The city is strangely empty and quite compared to when I went to bed last night. Soon however it begins to fill with people beginning their days. The daladalas start, almost no shops are open but people wander about in a focused manner. Its hot, even now I am sweating.

I get back around at 7:00 and after pounding on the door for several minutes I manage to wake the owner. I pack all my thinks. All my cloths smell of sweat. I only brought three shirts and I am saving the last for later today. I dress in my swim trunks and then pull on my shots over them. Breakfast is toast, fruit and egg. I check-out and take a wandering path over to the big tree, a massive tree that sits on the edge of the town and across the street from a beach that is the launching grounds for many of the boats. There I meet Kazim; another friend of Daniel that said hooked me up with the day before. Kazim is a medium height, well built African, dressed in a bright yellow brazil jersey and a pair of swim trunks. He greets me with a big smile and soon finds me a pair of fins and a mask and we set out for prison island which is a 35 minute boat ride away.

As we traverse the bright blue ocean I talk to Kazim. We talk about a lot of things. I learn that he night fishes at Pemba, the island north of Zanzibar, for a fish like the barracuda that is longer than a man. He is not yet thirty and has been a fisherman/guide his whole life. He ask me if I have a boyfriend. I ask him if he means girlfriend. He says yes but continues to get the word wrong throughout our conversation. He himself is single because as he tells me “the problem is always the women on Zanzibar.” I tell him it’s not just on Zanzibar.

We arrive at prison island where we spend about a half hour seeing some ruins and feeding the giant tortoises on the island. There are over 100 of the monsters. The largest’s shell must have been 5ft by 3ft. they are huge massive creatures. Their size and weight are staggering.

After this I spend several minutes watching Kazim take apart his engine and clean the spark plugs. Kazim apologizes and tells me not to worry. We get under way soon enough and travel out to the reef. I put on my fins and mask and jump in. it takes a few minutes to get used to breathing through the mask. The reef is colorful and full of fish. Perhaps not the best snorkeling reef ever. The sun is gone, the water isn’t very clear, and the reef is obviously damaged by anchors but it is still beautiful. After snorkeling for about an hour I retire to the boat. With the sun gone I am cold and the mask is giving me a headache. We go back to Stone Town.

We arrive around noon and I am sorry to say goodbye to Kazim. I wander down the waterfront checking out the menus for the restaurants. One, the Archipelago, looks promising. I mount the stairs to the second story restaurant where I change into my last clean shirt and some not very clean shorts. I sit at a table that overlooks the ocean. The sun is out again. Palm trees and white sand lead down to blue water. I order the baby squid salad with tomatoes and green peppers and the BBQ swordfish with avocados. Amazing. The squid salad is nearly the entire squids, just the insides and eyes, beak removed. I leave and wander down through the touristy part of town. I buy some postcards. I scoff at cheesy t-shirts that cost $28. I stop by a group of guys playing an interesting game. They tell me it is called Kerem or something and explain the rules to me. I discovered a fun question to ask. I ask whether Zanzibar is a different country than Tanzania. The responses are remarkably different. Yesterday a shop owner told me passionately that Zanzibar is a different country and that the Tanzanian president didn’t want the Zanzibar people because they were Muslims. He also told me that every single person on Zanzibar was Islamic. My Kerem playing friends tell me they are from the main land and that people who say that Zanzibar and Tanzania are different countries are fools.

I wander around Stone Town, buying some gifts for Unity’s Family and a few other things. I check out the old dispensary, whatever that is, and find a public building with art work done by local artists on the second floor. The building is a really cool design. I use their very western bathrooms and am delighted to find a toilet. After nearly an hour of searching I finally find the Anglican Cathedral which is built on the site of the old slave market and whose alter is set on the same spot as the whipping post. I decline a guide to the disgust of the men at the gate. I am running low on money. I look at the slave chambers and explore the church. It really is beautiful. As I am leaving one of the guides stops me and quizzes me on the history of the church. I am able to answer most of his questions since I did some research before I came here.

Then I wander down to the southern part of the city. I cross over form historic Stone Town to the modern Zanzibar City. I cross into a park where there are several football games going on. I sit down to watch. A young man soon comes and sits down and we start to chat about sports and Zanzibar. After an hour I leave. I wander up to the waterfront where I stop at an Italian restaurant and order a beer and watch the sun set. I couple of elderly ladies who I rode the ferry here with come up and ask me if they can join me at my table. I say sure. They are both from Norway and have traveled all over the world together. We have an interesting conversation.

After the sun sets I excuse myself. I am going to go eat at the food stalls which serve fresh daily caught seafood. The food stalls are located in the middle of the Forodhani Gardens. I buy a plate full of fresh fish, shark, prawns, calamari, and piece of garlic Nan.

As the cook puts my order on the grill to heat it up I stay and chat with the assistant, a young guy with a quirky sense of humor. I eat looking out at the ocean and watching the people wander around the food stall. While there are a lot of tourists there are even more locals. A man sits down near me and try to sell me a cd of African music. He is really drunk and keeps falling asleep, waking every few minutes to mumbles about his cd and hum the tune of one of the songs. He is sitting on the edge of the stone wall of the harbor and I am mildly hoping that he falls asleep and topples into the water. No such luck. I go to find the bathroom and discover that it costs 300 Tsh. Ok, this is a strange country. This is a legit guy asking for money too. He has a uniform, and key, and they price is written on the wall of the toilet.

After exiting the most expensive bathroom I have ever visited I pull out my remaining Cuban cigar. I rim the edge and then discover I can’t find my matches. Great. I go back to my friend at the food stall and he helps me light it. I let him have a puff and he chokes and starts coughing. A bit stronger than a cigarette I guess. I smoke the cigar as I walk towards the ferry. I am taking the night ferry back to Dar. I walk along the waters edge. Look out at the big black ocean. Drop some ash on my foot. I finish the cigar and through it into the water.

I spend several minutes at the ferry trying to get someone to stamp my passport to prove I was here. I finally find a man who can. I board the ferry and am ushered into the upper deck. Got tipped of here. I could have paid less and gone below deck where they leave the lights on and watch Jackie Chan movies. I strike up a conversation with a daladala driver named Muhammad. I then read and finally fall asleep near midnight. At some pointing the night I need to go to the bathroom. We apparently are on the ocean since the boat is rocking back and forth. I stumble towards the bathroom. As I try to keep my balance and aim I am suddenly suspicious of this seemingly innocent water on the bathroom floor. I finally manage to make my way back to the upper deck. I am now feeling decidedly sick. I flop down on my couch I scored for my self. The sickening motion of the boat soon turns to a pleasant lulling and I fall asleep.

Black Berry Jam and Nature is Not G-Rated

October 20^th: Tuesday

I got up early again in order to catch the daladala into town and make my 9:00 ferry. Janet very kindly made me whole wheat toast with blackberry jam. Little slice of home. Dan walked me to the road at 6:00 and I hopped on the daladala around 6:30. As we made our ponderous progress into town we continued to add more and more passengers until we were cramped like clowns in a Volkswagen and I was sweating like I was in a sauna. After a certain point our forward progress began to diminish to a few feet every couple of minutes. The pedestrians streamed past us. Finally as it neared 8:00 I elbowed my way out. I needed to find a taxi. My check in time was 8:30. As soon as I got out the traffic demons seeing that I had given up decided to let traffic start moving. Soon my daladala was out of sight. Great. I crossed the street and found a group of taxis but no drivers. Finally I found the drivers. I haggled for a bit and got into the passenger side with another driver who spoke no English. Thankfully I know “fast” in Swahili so I just sat back and cried “Haraka! Haraka!” I seemed to found the most passive and defensive African driver in all of Africa.

When we had finally arrived at the ferry it was two minutes tell 9:00. So much for checking in early. I was ushered through several gates and by several rotund ferry workers. During this time I noticed that my ticket said check-in-time 9:00, departure9:30. Oh. I sat around tell around 9:30 when I noticed a lot of the other whites were leaving. I decided to follow. I wandered down to the docks where I gave my ticket to a bored looking Indian fellow and boarded a speedy looking boat full of tourists. I guess it’s a bit too much work for the ferry workers to alert the passengers when their ferry is ready. It’s just so much to ask.

I ended up falling asleep on the trip over. I woke to see a sparkling green coastline and white stone buildings sitting atop the blue ocean. Kinda beautiful. We tourists piled of the boat and we proceeded to go through customs. I tried repeatedly to contact Daniel my supposed guide for the spice tour I planned to go on that day. He finally texted me that he was in a meeting. I tried to text him back that I was waiting at the dock but I don’t seem to be able to send texts Tanzanian phones. Go figure. I pushed my way through the hub of taxi drivers at the gates of the dock. After nearly 40 minutes of confusion, failed texts messages, many a missed call, and one point where my phone refused to do anything despite the four little bars in the corner. Finally Daniel got a hold of me to tell me that his friend Said (pronounced “say-eed) was meeting me.

Said was a slimly built Muslim, around thirty. He took me to lunch, which was part of the package. Spiced rice and chicken. The best African meal I have ever had. Then we went on the spice tour. While I don’t think Said ever smiled while he was with me he did like to talk. We talked about Islam, Zanzibar, his family, the drought, his career etc… We arrived at our destination. A slightly wooded area a thirty minute drive out of Stone town. There we met Levi our guide and Nike our spice boy. Levi is not Levi’s real name but that’s what I call him because he was wearing blue jeans and a blue shirt that said “Levi” on it. Plus I can’t remember his real name. We wandered around and Levi with the help of Nike showed me an astounding variety of spices in a staggering array of plants. Beware though, this spice tour was not rated G. some more inappropriate highlights which of course I remember. Ginger is a Viagra for men. Likewise nutmeg is a Viagra for women. Also Levi declared that the henna plant root was “very dangerous” and “bad” since if consumed it could cause abortions. Cool. The finale consisted of Nike (again not his real name, he wore a Nike cap at jaunty angle), the spice boy, climbed a massive palm tree and cut down three unripe coconuts which we drank the milk out of. Delicious.

Said and I talked again on the ride back to Stone Town where he helped me find some cheap lodgings for the night. At 16,000 Tsh ($12) a night the Annex of Abdullah fit the bill. I said good bye to Said. And took a much needed shower. Then I went out and explore Stone Town. After wandering through a thoroughly confusing set of streets I finally found the ocean. Hoping I could find my way back I went and checked out the House of Wonders, or the National History Museum. A massive and beautiful building it now houses several exhibits of the islands past, including a full sized dou (sp? Rhythms with “ow”), cloths from the royal palace, and the first president’s car, a tropical turquoise beast complete with tail fins.

After that I plunged into the labyrinth of Stone Town. With narrow streets, hardly wide enough for a motorcycle and high 3-4 story buildings it is easy and fun to get lost. The buildings are painted white and are in various states of decay. A mixture of Arabs, Indians, and Africans wander its streets. 95% of Zanzibar is Muslim and there are mosques everywhere all painted white with sea green trim making them look like giant cakes.

To save money I don’t eat out that night. Instead I rely on my supply of digestives and g-nuts. Before going to bed I take a look at my foot. I had developed a blister under several calluses on the way off Kili. However it has been hurting in the last few days. I think it may be infected but I can’t see anything since it is covered by the callous. The pain now is so much that I can’t sleep without pain medication. I take my knife to it. Pus and blood run out. I think it’s infected. I track down a pharmacy and ask for band aids. The women pulls out what looks like a roll of gauze. Ok. Only 200 Tsh. I get back to my room and discover the gaze is a net like think with more holes than my mosquito net. Never mind. My room thankfully has a fan. I fall asleep early that night to the sound of the city alive around me. Street vendors calling. Kids laughing. Men talking on street corners.

I Take A Bus Ride, A Taxi Ride, and A Daladala Ride

October 19^th: Monday

Crawled out of bed at 5:45. Pulled on some cloths and made sure I had everything. I had packed everything in a small backpacking pack my dad left from our assault on Kili. Unity and Grace gave me a ride to the Dar Express office where the bus would pick me up. Before I got out they prayed for me. The bus was scheduled to leave at 7:30 so I was surprised and delighted that we were on the road by 8:00.

The bus itself was very nice. Comfy seats, clean, and they served complimentary sodas which for 25,000 Tsh I think was called for. I sat right in front behind the driver next to the aisle. The bus driver looked upsettingly tired. I decided to keep an eye on him so if he started dozing off I could douse him with my coke. I soon fell asleep and dozed for a couple of hours.

Driving in Tanzania always interests me. There seems to be only a few driving rules. First driving on the left side of the road. Second, right of way is decided by the size of the vehicle, not by any traffic rules. So we being in a huge travel bus always had the right of way. Top of the food chain. Oh the other rule is that matatus, or daladalas don’t have to obey the traffic rules, but at their own peril.

We arrived in Dar Es Salaam shortly after 3:00. We pulled into a large bus station and as the other passengers and I clambered off the bus we were immediately assaulted by taxi drivers. I dodged behind the bus and made my escape towards the exit. I called the McBrides who are old friends of the Tricaricos and who I planned to spend the night with. They said they would pick me up at the Mwenge Carvers Market at 6:00.

I decided to take a taxi to the carvers market since I couldn’t find a daladala that was going there. I spotted a slightly built young taxi driver who I figured I could take in a fight if need be and asked if he could take me to the market. He replied in the affirmative and I got in. as we started of I asked him if he spoke English. He gave me a confused, bewildered look that I took as “no”. He had a stuffed elephant hanging from his rear view mirror that upon my saying “jina” (name in Swahili) and pointing he confided its name was Omar. Using the same sophisticated technique I learned his name was Harry. We stopped for gas and then he promptly took me to what looked like a strip mall. I reminded him I wanted to go to the carvers market. We left the mall and drove along several roads for some time. Finally we stopped at another gas station where the young Harry sought the knowledge of his fellow taxi drivers. After several long minutes of rapid discussion where I learned that none of them spoke English and they consulted my tiny map of Dar that was noticeably lacking the location of the carvers market harry pulled into the street, pulled a U-turn parked on the other side of the street. We had found the market. I stepped out and looked back at the gas station where we had just spent the precious ten minutes trying to figure out how to get here. The Taxi drivers who had helped us waved.

The carvers market was made up of at least 50 small shops each selling nearly identical souvenirs. Carvings of animals, masaai, bowls, utensils, beaded jewelry, knives, and artwork. It amazes me that all the tourist shops in Africa that I have been to sell nearly the same identical things. I wondered trying to kill some time and finally asked someone which daladala I should take if I wanted to get to the Zanzibar Ferry. I was told the Mwenge Posta. Armed with this knowledge and a sense of adventure at around 4:30 I hopped on the correct daladala and paid my 250 Tsh, about 20 cents.

I struck up several conversations on the ride. One with a painter, another with a student studying medicine in the Dar University. I was told I needed to tell my Swahili speaking door man I wanted to get off at posta zamani. For those not familiar with daladalas they are very small buses, or rather large vans. Equipped with approximately 14 seats they can hold more than twice that number. The crew consists if the driver and the door boy. The door to the daladala is a large sliding door like on a van. The door boy stands by the door, pulling it open and closed, shouting the destination of the daladala, and collecting the fare from the passengers.

I finally made it to the water front and the ferry office which thankfully was still open. I was happy to be back in a big city. Although it could never be confused for say Portland it still gave that impression of a large, bustling, almost western city. After I finally bought my ticket which was much cheaper than my research had indicated it was approaching 5:30. I called the McBrides in order to see if they wouldn’t mind waiting for me to find a daladala back so I could still stay with them. After several missed calls, failed text messages, repeatedly buying of airtime from a drunk (or high, I wasn’t really paying him a whole lot of attention) Rastafarian the McBrides finally just told me to wait where I was and they would come and get me. Well I was feeling pretty stupid at this point. I had wandered off and gotten myself in trouble and now these adults had to come rescue the kid. At least that is the way I felt. However I am glad that I was able to spend the night with them instead of a guesthouse.

They rolled up and after handshakes I got in and we headed to a favorite Chinese restaurant because the traffic out of Dar is so bad at night we would have been stuck in traffic for hours. Waiting out the traffic while eating good food seemed like a good plan to me. The McBrides, Dan and Janet, have been missionaries in Dar for 17 years. They are about the same age as my parents with four kids, all of similar ages as our family. Being able to spend the evening talking with them was an amazing blessing. They are an interesting, wise, and godly couple. Also they have great taste in food. We ordered several delicious dishes but the best was “inside out fish” in some mango sauce or something. It was delicious.

When we arrived at their house that night the power was out due to the electricity rationing. I met their two kids who still live at home and also was introduced to their shower which I was very thankful for. Then I fell asleep and when the power came on at midnight I cranked up the fan they had given me and slept in a cool breeze.

In Which I Say Farewell To My Toenails

October 15^th-17^th: Thursday-Saturday

Thursday during school Patrick trimmed on of the trees there. I say trimmed because that is the word he used but what he actually did was cut off every branch with leaves on it. During break time all the kids were to be found underneath the tree bouncing up and down on the branches and chasing each other with sticks performing Jackie Chan moves. It was hilarious.

By Friday my toes seemed to stop collecting puss and had stopped hurting. That night I was looking at them and realized they were really loose. So I grabbed on to them and just peeled them off. It was fascinatingly disgusting. I have packaged them and am sending them to parties unknown as revenge for past grievances against me. Just kidding. Maybe. Watch out.

My dad brought my Zune over but it seemed to have some mechanical difficulties so he had to take it back in order to fix it. Thankfully my little brother Pete has burned me a couple cds so I have been listening to all this week.

I bought my bus ticket for Dar Es Salaam on Saturday. I leave Monday at 7:15. due to my knowledge of African time hopefully we will be on the road by 8:00. It will take about 8 hours to get form Moshi to Dar so I will just spend the night in Dar to save money. I plan to stay with an old friend of Al Tricarico. Then on Tuesday I will take the ferry to Zanzibar. If everything works out I will be able to go on a spice tour that afternoon. I plan to spend the night in Zanzibar and then on Wednesday explore Stone Town and with any luck go snorkeling. I will take the night ferry back to Dar. As I understand the night ferry takes about 6 hours to traverse the distance between Zanzibar and Dar. However it is not allowed to dock tell after 5:30 so I will most likely have some time in Dar before I can catch a bus back to Moshi.

Life Returns to Normal and A Death Day In Tanzania

October 12^th- 14^th: Monday-Wednesday

Monday morning my dad and I got up early and met Unity who was giving my dad a ride to the airport. We spent a few interesting moments trying to locate my dad’s underwear that was supposed to be ready last night. I hugged my dad goodbye and he disappeared into the airport.

I spent that day getting situated back into my room at Unity’s. I needed t sort everything that my dad had brought for me and get settled back in. that afternoon I went to easycom and got caught up on all the email that had accumulated since climbing kili. During the descent from kili I learned something interesting about my boots. Every time I took a step downhill my toes would jam into the toe of my boot resulting in an n incredible amount of pain. By the end of the first day they were tender and I a little loose. By the second day they had swollen and huge pools of pus had formed under my two bug toes. They were loose but not enough for my to rip them off then and there.

It was great to get back to school Tuesday. I forgot how much I missed the little guys. I helped out in Glady’s class as usual. During break time the kids bounced around and played managing to stomp on my tender toes at least as often as not. Thanks guys.

Wednesday was a holy day here. The death day of their first president. So no school. I spent the early morning typing up my blog on kili and then went into town. Dad had left our little backpacking pack that I had lugged to the top of kili. It’s a nice size and I think I am going to take it to Zanzibar but neither of the side pockets zippers work. So I took them into town and got them repaired at the same shop where my dad bought a shirt. Cost me less than two dollars to get them repaired. I also bought a book about 6 guys who sailed a raft from Peru to the South Sea Islands. I don’t know why yet but it looks fascinating. I also bought some cheap sandals which I hope will hold out tell after I get back to Uganda. The ones I brought to Africa don’t have a sole left.

It looks as though I need to go to Zanzibar next week if I am going to make it a four day trip. So I need to consolidate my plans. I talked to Unity that afternoon and he said that he thinks it will be fine if I go next Monday the 19^th through Thursday the 22^nd. It sounds as though we will be visiting widows and orphans this weekend and bringing them food and other necessities.

Pizza and Cigar

October 11^th: Sunday

Sunday morning my dad and I again attended Unity’s church. We arrived shortly after 10:00 because we had to go buy some petrol for the generator since there was a local blackout at the church. Upon arriving everyone is praying aloud and privately. Praying aloud is something that all Africans seem to do. It’s really cool when the entire church starts praying. Some people are loud and passionate, pacing back and forth, while others stand close to the walls and speak quietly.

Next the church begins to sing and dance. Generally we will sing a slow and a fast song. The songs are call and response and are beautiful. They are simple and repeat the same lyrics over and over again but the passion and ability of the singers is incredible. During the slow songs people just sway but during the fast ones they start dancing and that’s when I feel how white I am. They form into lines in the back, men and women. They all follow a leader but it is barely discernable between who is leading and who is following. Black Africans seem to have music in their blood. My dad put it a good way, he said that while music is important in both the west and Africa, African music is all about the participation.

After singing for at least an hour there will be announcements and then the choir will sing a song which they have prepared during the week. The choir ranges from little kids, 8 or 9 to Gladness and Lightness who are in their 20s. they put a small basket on a stool up front for offerings during this song. Then the Sunday school kids come up, about a dozen of them, and they say their memory verse for that week, then people will stand up and give testimonies or ask for prayer. We usually sing some more before Unity or whoever is preaching begins.

Unity can preach for over an hour. I can’t understand a word he says but he is a passionate and dynamic speaker. Then Unity will pray and lastly we will sing a song. As we sing we all file out of the church and create a “reception” line. We pass by and shake everyone’s hands in the church. The line loops around and on a full Sunday can almost meet itself again.

That night my dad and I had a celebration dinner. We ate at Indioitaliano’s. We both wore our team Kilimanjaro shirts. On the way over dad tried to take a picture of one of the fruit ladies stacking here oranges in little pyramids but she say him and stood up and started yelling and frothing at the mouth. Not really. Everyone on the street though was very unhappy with us though.

For dinner my dad and I both had pizza. I had some chicken and pineapple pizza and my dad had sausage (hot dog). Both where incredibly good. We both had a couple beers and spent hour just talking. I love that I can spend time with my dad as an equal. After trying their descent milkshakes we broke out one of the Cuban cigars I had bought upon my exit from Uganda. Since my dad was still feeling pretty low from altitude sickness we split it, which I guess to my dad means he has about a dozen puffs and then gives it all to me. Best cigar I have ever had. So smooth and delicious. A great end to a great adventure.

And Back Again

Day 5: 12,336 ft- 6,102

We were awoken at 5:00 that morning by Emmanuel. We dressed, packed, and ate breakfast (in my case) and looked mournfully at some fruit and a “sausage” (My dad, who did actually manage to eat some fruit and a “sausage”). By 6:00 we were on our way. It took us about 5 hours to negotiate the trail down to Marangu gate. We passed a few clean people on the way up.

We would beat Tory, our Swedish friend to the gate, which is the first time we should beat Tory on the entire trip. He had made it to the top nearly 2 hours ahead of us and always roared past us during some part during the day. He is a beast. Andrew also beat us to the top although by only about an hour. He has a bum knee of some sort so what took us only 50 minutes to descend would take him almost 4 hours.

Stephan told us something interesting. He told us about how at Horombo huts they have guards with guns full of “bullets and fire” who went on duty at 8:00 pm and were very aggressive so we shouldn’t walk around at night without a headlamp, if we needed to see and monkey we should go strait, and we should not wander around and say look at Moshi at night. Thanks Stephan, sounds like good advice although a little late.

Upon arriving at the gate we met a thoroughly clean Calvin who had gone ahead to get our certificates ready. We filled out the registration book and then went to see Calvin’s shop and then to eat some lunch. My dad who still wasn’t feeling well didn’t eat anything. After lunch we were ceremoniously given our certificates which my dad and I refused to touch since we were incredibly dirty. Then our guides said thank you, they and the porters sang for us, and then I thanked them. The my dad thanked them and gave them their tips. We piled into the van with Stephan, another pastor (presumably the owner) his son, wife, and some other undistinguished people and drove to Moshi.

My father and sorted our incredibly dirty gear and then showered. For dinner we went to a little coffee shop and had some decent milkshakes and burger and fries. Thant night we crashed and I slept for 12 hours.