The hotel next door to us has just changed hands to become an all inclusive italian resort, complete with animateurs and a terrible shit disco. And it's all private property now. Yup, I can no longer cross their patch of beach to go to work, i gotta walk around their property. The masai security guards are evidently unhappy about this unAfrican custom they're being asked to enforce and sheepishly ask you to leave - it seems to go against every bone in their body to take land that belongs to everybody and make it into the private domain of ignorant and spoilt tourists.
But all along, the beach it's the same story. Local artists who scrimp a living in their shacks along the beach are being told at gunpoint to clear off or see their livelihood burnt down. No reason given but evidently these locals who have lived on this beach for generations are a "nuisance" to the tourists who want to fly halfway across the world in order not to leave their hotel. Greedy developers are hungrily eyeing their land, which legally belongs to everyone but as is so often the case, will soon come under the relentless steps of privatisation and "free market capitalism." Some paradise.
Driving around the island has really made me realise how out of control the development is here. Zanzibar is being carved up into small sections of walled concrete, locals being driven from their traditional homes. In Jozani forest, a local nature reserve, I learnt that if every tourist who comes to Zanzibar eats just one lobster or crab, that's 63,000 crabs or lobsters a year. How long is this sustainable? Everyday I see reefs being agressively overfished as the demand for seafood escalates but noone's thinking about tomorrow.
You could argue that tourism is good for the economy and sure, a lot of people do find employment in the tourist trade. Driving around the more touristy spots, you could be forgiven for thinking that Zanzibaris enjoy a reasonable standard of living: houses are well built from bricks, not just wooden shacks. But stray off the path a little and you'll find farmers struggling to make a living. As we learnt on a tour of a local spice farm, not too long ago Zanzibar was self-sufficient and bountiful, noone paid for food, you just went to the fields and took your fill. Now on the ill-thought out advice of the World Bank, farmers are told to grow only export crops, the price of which is being driven down and down by unfair free market policies. I was invited to a local home in the village here in Kendwa last night, to the house of the well-to-do old man - I was surprised to see that even here, in a village which does much better than most from the tourist trade, not a single house had electricity or running water.
The average waiter here makes about $100/month, working 10 hour shifts, 6 days a week. Meanwhile wealthy hotel owners and frequently foreign investors watch the money flow into their hands. It's the vacuum cleaner effect of deregulated capitalism, sucking the wealth out of an area and making people trespassers on their own land.
Okay, so that's my rant. Rebuttals welcome.
Sunday, 23 December 2007
Monday, 17 December 2007
This is Africa, no drink driving laws in Africa!
Last week we rented a car for the duration of my parents' stay. Wow. After months of trudging through the heat along dusty tracks, a car was an unbelievable luxury. I admit I enjoyed it to the full, blasting around the island behind the tinted windows of a Suzuki Jeep, pretending to be some local "big man".
I was quite shaky at first having not driven for over a year and, indeed, never having driven an automatic, so managed to cause quite a bit of havoc in Stone Town as I tried to pull off in park and reversed the wrong way around corners, car lurching forward due to an overly sensitive accelerator. It took us a while to work out how to turn the ignition (no it's not that simple!) so we managed to cause a scene at the garage, while puzzled attendants scratched their heads and a line of cars honked and laughed at the stupid white man unable to work a simple car. Fantastic.
Despite these initial hiccups, Africa's "make it up as you go along" approach to driving (and indeed most things) charmed me and I was soon overtaking around blind bends up hills, narrowly avoiding chickens on rocky excuses for roads and honking my heart out. Ah Africa, no rules in Africa! No pesky speed limits to worry about or drink-driving laws to stop you enjoying your night out or maximum passenger limits - if there's room, you can take your entire family and the cow.
On an island with a conspicuous lack of police, the roads is the one area where the police are noticeably present. But don't worry, they're not interested in your safety or whether you've got a bootload of marijuana, they just want to check your license, chat to you about Man Utd and maybe get a bit of baksheesh cos your brake light's out of order.
The highlight of the week was on the return drive to Stone Town, where I took a wrong turn and found myself on a highway in which traffic had been directed into a single lane due to roadworks. Things were working fine though with cars passing slowly and people backing up or pulling over to let larger vehicles through. Fine, that is, until I managed to miss the unsigned crossover point where normal traffic resumed. I began to wonder why cars were now hurtling towards me at speed and no one was slowing to let me pass. Indeed, everyone seemed quite excited by my presence, waving and honking. Like a good bemused white man, I honked and waved and smiled back, ploughing on the wrong way down a one-way street. Soon I found myself at a busy cross-roads, trying to turn right into on-coming traffic. Luckily a little old man on a bicycle held up traffic just long enough for me to pounce on this opening, rejoining the right side of the road with a sigh of relief. It was only then that I noticed two policeman had been patiently watching the whole drama, arms folded, quiet smiles on their lips. Instead of pulling us over, they merely smiled and waved us on our way.
I was quite shaky at first having not driven for over a year and, indeed, never having driven an automatic, so managed to cause quite a bit of havoc in Stone Town as I tried to pull off in park and reversed the wrong way around corners, car lurching forward due to an overly sensitive accelerator. It took us a while to work out how to turn the ignition (no it's not that simple!) so we managed to cause a scene at the garage, while puzzled attendants scratched their heads and a line of cars honked and laughed at the stupid white man unable to work a simple car. Fantastic.
Despite these initial hiccups, Africa's "make it up as you go along" approach to driving (and indeed most things) charmed me and I was soon overtaking around blind bends up hills, narrowly avoiding chickens on rocky excuses for roads and honking my heart out. Ah Africa, no rules in Africa! No pesky speed limits to worry about or drink-driving laws to stop you enjoying your night out or maximum passenger limits - if there's room, you can take your entire family and the cow.
On an island with a conspicuous lack of police, the roads is the one area where the police are noticeably present. But don't worry, they're not interested in your safety or whether you've got a bootload of marijuana, they just want to check your license, chat to you about Man Utd and maybe get a bit of baksheesh cos your brake light's out of order.
The highlight of the week was on the return drive to Stone Town, where I took a wrong turn and found myself on a highway in which traffic had been directed into a single lane due to roadworks. Things were working fine though with cars passing slowly and people backing up or pulling over to let larger vehicles through. Fine, that is, until I managed to miss the unsigned crossover point where normal traffic resumed. I began to wonder why cars were now hurtling towards me at speed and no one was slowing to let me pass. Indeed, everyone seemed quite excited by my presence, waving and honking. Like a good bemused white man, I honked and waved and smiled back, ploughing on the wrong way down a one-way street. Soon I found myself at a busy cross-roads, trying to turn right into on-coming traffic. Luckily a little old man on a bicycle held up traffic just long enough for me to pounce on this opening, rejoining the right side of the road with a sigh of relief. It was only then that I noticed two policeman had been patiently watching the whole drama, arms folded, quiet smiles on their lips. Instead of pulling us over, they merely smiled and waved us on our way.
Friday, 30 November 2007
Sugar Momma and the Full Moon Party
We were sitting around the other night, chatting with Baraka, a local batik artist with a torso like that model from the calvin klein adverts, Ame, the cheeky receptionist of the dive centre and Dan, the smiley Malawian divemaster, when conversation turned to a local phenomenon: the "Sugar Momma". Sure, you've heard of Sugar Daddies but out here it's the other way around, spend a bit of time on this beach and you'll spot ropey older women, looking like they belong in Benidorm, probably called Sharon or Tracy, wrapped around a local beach boy. For them it's the "African Experience", the flattery of being lavished attention by a handsome young guy with a physique honed by hard work and meagre diet, for the beach boys it's a ticket out of poverty. For everyone else it's a source of great amusement. I don't know whether to regard it with sadness or amusement - i guess if they are both happy in their own way, then what the hey?
The Sugar Mommas were out in force at the full moon party last weekend. Before you imagine scenes of Goan revelry, hippies bopping to repetetive gabba music 'til dawn and poi on the beach, stop. Instead imagine the scene from the cheap drinks night in the shoddiest club in Leicester or Plymouth and you're spot on. Yup, both full moon parties here have failed to live up to their names, inspiring mostly horror mixed with amusement. Even though this is Zanzibar the formula is straight out of one of those clubs: tons of sleazy local men, pissed and making passes at anything with four limbs, whilst white guys in shirts dance awkwardly to commercial hip-hop. It's scenes like this that make me question humankind... is this where evolution and the advanceof globalisation has brought us?
The Sugar Mommas were out in force at the full moon party last weekend. Before you imagine scenes of Goan revelry, hippies bopping to repetetive gabba music 'til dawn and poi on the beach, stop. Instead imagine the scene from the cheap drinks night in the shoddiest club in Leicester or Plymouth and you're spot on. Yup, both full moon parties here have failed to live up to their names, inspiring mostly horror mixed with amusement. Even though this is Zanzibar the formula is straight out of one of those clubs: tons of sleazy local men, pissed and making passes at anything with four limbs, whilst white guys in shirts dance awkwardly to commercial hip-hop. It's scenes like this that make me question humankind... is this where evolution and the advanceof globalisation has brought us?
Tuesday, 20 November 2007
Sharing a taxi with several tourists the other day reminded me how much the "them and us", white/black, superior/inferior complex still exists. Two french ladies, very much suffering from culture shock, were constantly complaining to the driver about leaving late, about speed and then tried to direct HIM to the their hotel, assuming he was an idiot, not a native Zanzibarian who's driven these roads for twenty years. Okay, so they were French, but still, I found myself pretty disgusted.
It's subtle but portrayals in the western media of Africans as mainly poor, uneducated, starving, victims or perpetrators of conflicts mean that many people still come here with a subconscious assumption about African people. It shows in the way some tourists talk down to locals, or adopt pidgin english and generally treat them as if they were children. Others are constantly suspicious and regard all interactions with Swahili people as minefields, arguing over change or storming out of shops when they think they are being overcharged, when mostly they're not.
The point is that there is so much depth and complexity to Swahili and indeed African culture that western imperialism mostly ignores, indeed the "history" of this continent as it is taught in our schools begins with colonisation, wiping out thousands of years of vast civilisations with the stroke of a pen. So many people fail to scratch beneath the surface and try to understand this culture and the lives of people here.
For example, if you've never eaten in a restaurant with waiter service, how can you know what people expect? If you're a poor taxi driver, trying to provide for a family of ten, of course you're going to try to get as many people in as possible. If you had to leave school at 10, you're going to speak pidgin English. If you don't own a watch, how can you be on time? If there's no waste collection service or any bins, of course the streets will be dirty. Complaining and shouting is not something that's done around here, largely because if you live somewhere where daily life is a struggle, what's the good of complaining?
Living out here is like a process of unlearning, gradually attempting not to see things through the lens of Western perception and trying to see why things are the way they are and why people act the way they do.
It's subtle but portrayals in the western media of Africans as mainly poor, uneducated, starving, victims or perpetrators of conflicts mean that many people still come here with a subconscious assumption about African people. It shows in the way some tourists talk down to locals, or adopt pidgin english and generally treat them as if they were children. Others are constantly suspicious and regard all interactions with Swahili people as minefields, arguing over change or storming out of shops when they think they are being overcharged, when mostly they're not.
The point is that there is so much depth and complexity to Swahili and indeed African culture that western imperialism mostly ignores, indeed the "history" of this continent as it is taught in our schools begins with colonisation, wiping out thousands of years of vast civilisations with the stroke of a pen. So many people fail to scratch beneath the surface and try to understand this culture and the lives of people here.
For example, if you've never eaten in a restaurant with waiter service, how can you know what people expect? If you're a poor taxi driver, trying to provide for a family of ten, of course you're going to try to get as many people in as possible. If you had to leave school at 10, you're going to speak pidgin English. If you don't own a watch, how can you be on time? If there's no waste collection service or any bins, of course the streets will be dirty. Complaining and shouting is not something that's done around here, largely because if you live somewhere where daily life is a struggle, what's the good of complaining?
Living out here is like a process of unlearning, gradually attempting not to see things through the lens of Western perception and trying to see why things are the way they are and why people act the way they do.
Thursday, 15 November 2007
DJ Jizzy James in da House
Last week we approached the amusingy German manager of a local bar and asked him if we could DJ (well, press play on the ipod) for him one night. He replied "Ja zat vould be good, we are liking zee eighties and zee cheese and zee hip hop in zee moment". I assured him I had plenty of that and then set about putting together a four hour mix of relentless pounding drum n bass and techno. Teehee. Unfortunately, all the bars round here play a mixture of terrible eurotrance and commercial rap so we were determined to give people something good.
It turned out to be a really fun night, being a dj is pretty fun, especially when you're being plied with free drinks and can go around to people introducing yourself casually as "the DJ". The DnB was well received but the locals still prefer their beanie man and sean paul... will have to work on them.
It turned out to be a really fun night, being a dj is pretty fun, especially when you're being plied with free drinks and can go around to people introducing yourself casually as "the DJ". The DnB was well received but the locals still prefer their beanie man and sean paul... will have to work on them.
Sunday, 11 November 2007
Observations on Zanzibar
I've got so many half-thought out ideas and impressions to blog about that I can't seem to find one subject to write about. Thus, I thought I'd just jot down some general observations about life here.
1. Zanzibar's palms, white sand beaches and azure sea is not just a beautiful cliché, it is the original inspiration for all tropical paradise clichés. Sometimes, I can't believe I live in such a breathtaking place. The sun on the sea at noon glitters like diamonds and the water is crystal clear like a swimming pool.
2. Zooming along on a speedboat dressed in a wetsuit, wind whipping my hair, a white line of coast spreading out behind, makes me feel like a Navy Seal.
3.”Karibu” (“Welcome”) is a word that defines Swahili culture. Life here is filled with little acts of kindness and people will go out of their way to help you when they see you’re a visitor. Hang around the house and it’s not long before a plate of fresh mango or some rice and stew is pushed into your hands. Look lost at the minibus stand and people will help you find the right one. It’s a different welcome to other places I’ve been – not the minor-celebrity style attention you receive in Ethiopia, nor the obsessive over-feeding of Senegal or the touristy service of South East Asia, there’s a open, friendly but not intrusive attitude here that makes me feel very at home.
4. As in all African countries, greetings are paramount and there are dozens of them. I think it's indicative of the value placed on community here - after all, if you haven't got dvd players or playstations to entertain you, people are a valuable resource. Greetings include: Habari - how are you? /Mambo - how's life? / Vipi - How's it going? / Sema - Say what? / Salama - Peace / Karibu - welcome. Moving around here is necessarily at a slower pace because to get from a to b you inevitably spend up to 5 minutes at a time going through endless greetings with everyone you meet. Only slightly annoying when you desperately need the loo.
5. Despite the massive influx of tourist dollar, there's very little of the Thai-style aggressive touting. Furthermore, people haven't lost their traditional ways: walking home along the beach at night, it's common to see a group of Masai having a good old drum and a singalong, not for the benefit of any tourist.
1. Zanzibar's palms, white sand beaches and azure sea is not just a beautiful cliché, it is the original inspiration for all tropical paradise clichés. Sometimes, I can't believe I live in such a breathtaking place. The sun on the sea at noon glitters like diamonds and the water is crystal clear like a swimming pool.
2. Zooming along on a speedboat dressed in a wetsuit, wind whipping my hair, a white line of coast spreading out behind, makes me feel like a Navy Seal.
3.”Karibu” (“Welcome”) is a word that defines Swahili culture. Life here is filled with little acts of kindness and people will go out of their way to help you when they see you’re a visitor. Hang around the house and it’s not long before a plate of fresh mango or some rice and stew is pushed into your hands. Look lost at the minibus stand and people will help you find the right one. It’s a different welcome to other places I’ve been – not the minor-celebrity style attention you receive in Ethiopia, nor the obsessive over-feeding of Senegal or the touristy service of South East Asia, there’s a open, friendly but not intrusive attitude here that makes me feel very at home.
4. As in all African countries, greetings are paramount and there are dozens of them. I think it's indicative of the value placed on community here - after all, if you haven't got dvd players or playstations to entertain you, people are a valuable resource. Greetings include: Habari - how are you? /Mambo - how's life? / Vipi - How's it going? / Sema - Say what? / Salama - Peace / Karibu - welcome. Moving around here is necessarily at a slower pace because to get from a to b you inevitably spend up to 5 minutes at a time going through endless greetings with everyone you meet. Only slightly annoying when you desperately need the loo.
5. Despite the massive influx of tourist dollar, there's very little of the Thai-style aggressive touting. Furthermore, people haven't lost their traditional ways: walking home along the beach at night, it's common to see a group of Masai having a good old drum and a singalong, not for the benefit of any tourist.
Friday, 2 November 2007
The Pit of Doom
I fell into the pit of doom last night. Fortunately, I managed to hang onto the edge with one arm and one leg, whilst my other appendages flailed about in the darkness below. I don't know what was down there but I'm sure it wouldn't have been a nice landing.
The pit of doom is a large, man-sized hole, conveniently placed between the side of my house and the next one. Especially convenient if you stumble home a little the worse for wear after midnight, only to find the front door locked and have to make your way around to the back in the pitch black. It was a bit of a shock, let me tell you, to plunge into the pit of doom when all you want is to go to bed.
Luckily, I have only some cuts and scrapes as a reminder of my run in with the pit of doom. It could have been far worse. Its gaping black jaw conceals unknown fathoms of depth. Some say it is the lair of a monster, some say it is a route to China, others a bottomless jail. It is safe to say I'll be going the long way round from now on.
The pit of doom is a large, man-sized hole, conveniently placed between the side of my house and the next one. Especially convenient if you stumble home a little the worse for wear after midnight, only to find the front door locked and have to make your way around to the back in the pitch black. It was a bit of a shock, let me tell you, to plunge into the pit of doom when all you want is to go to bed.
Luckily, I have only some cuts and scrapes as a reminder of my run in with the pit of doom. It could have been far worse. Its gaping black jaw conceals unknown fathoms of depth. Some say it is the lair of a monster, some say it is a route to China, others a bottomless jail. It is safe to say I'll be going the long way round from now on.
Saturday, 27 October 2007
A Shopping Trip
A few days ago, we ventured to the capital of Zanzibar, historic Stone Town, for a day of shopping. Our one shop in the village with its massive choice of one brand of milk, one brand of butter, one brand of matches and a few dusty onions was starting to feel a bit limiting, plus I had forgotten to pack any shirts and Rose was in search of a wrap skirt to compliment her headscarf (i am preparing her for our move to Jeddah).
So off we went to the main road to catch a dalla dalla. Dalla dallas are half truck, half bus, 100% death trap forms of transportation common to most of Africa, offering cheap and exciting travel to many destinations. The one rule with the dalla dalla is that it is NEVER full. All the seats occupied? Are you sure? All laps occupied? There's room on the floor! Floor full? You can hang out the back. No more room? What about the roof?! The really great thing about dalla dallas are that they're a brilliant window into African patience and community spirit. Everyone helps out, squeezing up a little, holding young ones and shopping, passing payment and change back and forth and every bump is greeted with laughter and smiles.
We arrived in Stone Town at about midday and set off to do our shopping. Stone Town is a wonderfully atmospheric place, seemingly unwilling to be jolted out of hundreds of years of slumber. The centre is a winding and maze like medina, with high shady walls and overhanging roofs to catch the rain. Ornate doors from the 17th century still sit in most entrances and depsite the abundance of mopeds and mobile phones, it's not hard to imagine this bustling arab port two centuries ago, launching galleons heavy with spices and slaves bound for the Middle East and Europe. To this day, traditional dhows and canoes sit side by side with massive ferries and japanese trawlers on the waterfront.
Stone Town is an easy place to get lost and get lost we did, wandering through the narrow streets, buying bunches of strange fruit from little stalls and stopping for a glass of sugar cane juice, pressed before our eyes. Eventually, we wound up in Darijani Market, the bustling commerce hub of the town. The fruit and vegetable market belies how incredibly abundant this island is and we could hardly stop salivating over the coconuts and the spinach and the bunches of fresh lemongrass (note: dripping saliva over merchandise is unlikely to get you a good price). We headed into the covered market where I picked up a couple of shirts for $10 and Rose bought a kanga wrap for $3.
Happy with our purchases, we started home, this time managing to get a seat on a numbered bus, where everyone gets their own seat - what opulence...
So off we went to the main road to catch a dalla dalla. Dalla dallas are half truck, half bus, 100% death trap forms of transportation common to most of Africa, offering cheap and exciting travel to many destinations. The one rule with the dalla dalla is that it is NEVER full. All the seats occupied? Are you sure? All laps occupied? There's room on the floor! Floor full? You can hang out the back. No more room? What about the roof?! The really great thing about dalla dallas are that they're a brilliant window into African patience and community spirit. Everyone helps out, squeezing up a little, holding young ones and shopping, passing payment and change back and forth and every bump is greeted with laughter and smiles.
We arrived in Stone Town at about midday and set off to do our shopping. Stone Town is a wonderfully atmospheric place, seemingly unwilling to be jolted out of hundreds of years of slumber. The centre is a winding and maze like medina, with high shady walls and overhanging roofs to catch the rain. Ornate doors from the 17th century still sit in most entrances and depsite the abundance of mopeds and mobile phones, it's not hard to imagine this bustling arab port two centuries ago, launching galleons heavy with spices and slaves bound for the Middle East and Europe. To this day, traditional dhows and canoes sit side by side with massive ferries and japanese trawlers on the waterfront.
Stone Town is an easy place to get lost and get lost we did, wandering through the narrow streets, buying bunches of strange fruit from little stalls and stopping for a glass of sugar cane juice, pressed before our eyes. Eventually, we wound up in Darijani Market, the bustling commerce hub of the town. The fruit and vegetable market belies how incredibly abundant this island is and we could hardly stop salivating over the coconuts and the spinach and the bunches of fresh lemongrass (note: dripping saliva over merchandise is unlikely to get you a good price). We headed into the covered market where I picked up a couple of shirts for $10 and Rose bought a kanga wrap for $3.
Happy with our purchases, we started home, this time managing to get a seat on a numbered bus, where everyone gets their own seat - what opulence...
Thursday, 25 October 2007
The Perils of Breakfast
I am a big fan of breakfast. A massive fan. My idea of heaven would be to be genetically combined with a combination of eggs, beans, hash brown, toast, mushroom and sausage, able to consume myself in an eternal nirvanic cycle... okay so I've had too much sun today. Breakfast here is a complicated, intricate affair, with many pitfalls for the uninitiated.
Generally, I stumble out of my room at about 7, hungry and in search of food like a primeval caveman. I mix up a big mug of Africafe, which I'm sure is a hidden subsidiary of Nescafe. Most days, there's a fresh loaf, fetched by the housekeeper from the only baker in the village, the aptly named Baba Mkate (Father bread). Sometimes there is no bread or the housekeeper will inform me sheepishly that the others (meaning him) have finished it all. There is one brand of margerine available on Zanzibar - the inimitable fluorescant yellow Nido, with a list of preservatives as long as my arm. Yum.
Then, I turn my attention to eggs. I'm a bit of a Gordon Ramsay when it comes to eggs; oversalting or cracked yolks are liable to send me into a rage of Godly proportions. Making eggs here is an interesting process. The kerosene stove has two settings - very hot and extremely hot. Added to this, the frying pan does not balance on top and the handle is too hot to hold, being made of metal (clever design). Therefore cracking an egg is a complicated juggling process combining precision balancing of the pan and cracking the egg with sufficient force but not so much that the pan tips over, splashing boiling oil all over your knees. Despite my best intentions, most of my eggs end up as a flash fried mess and I'm left sobbing over burnt crispy white bits scraped off the pan. Did I mentioon I'm a tad obsessive about eggs?
I often pop next door to get some fresh fruit from the shop. Fresh indeed, but not necessarily ripe, despite the shopkeepers smiling assurance. It was only yesterday that I realised his understanding of "ripe" roughly equates to "nice". Heh. "Yes, all my fruit is nice!"
Still, on a day where I manage a decent egg and find a ripe mango and sit down with my coffee, looking out at the dhows slowly drifting on the azure sea, I remind myself that there are more important things in life than the quest for the perfect egg. But not many.
Generally, I stumble out of my room at about 7, hungry and in search of food like a primeval caveman. I mix up a big mug of Africafe, which I'm sure is a hidden subsidiary of Nescafe. Most days, there's a fresh loaf, fetched by the housekeeper from the only baker in the village, the aptly named Baba Mkate (Father bread). Sometimes there is no bread or the housekeeper will inform me sheepishly that the others (meaning him) have finished it all. There is one brand of margerine available on Zanzibar - the inimitable fluorescant yellow Nido, with a list of preservatives as long as my arm. Yum.
Then, I turn my attention to eggs. I'm a bit of a Gordon Ramsay when it comes to eggs; oversalting or cracked yolks are liable to send me into a rage of Godly proportions. Making eggs here is an interesting process. The kerosene stove has two settings - very hot and extremely hot. Added to this, the frying pan does not balance on top and the handle is too hot to hold, being made of metal (clever design). Therefore cracking an egg is a complicated juggling process combining precision balancing of the pan and cracking the egg with sufficient force but not so much that the pan tips over, splashing boiling oil all over your knees. Despite my best intentions, most of my eggs end up as a flash fried mess and I'm left sobbing over burnt crispy white bits scraped off the pan. Did I mentioon I'm a tad obsessive about eggs?
I often pop next door to get some fresh fruit from the shop. Fresh indeed, but not necessarily ripe, despite the shopkeepers smiling assurance. It was only yesterday that I realised his understanding of "ripe" roughly equates to "nice". Heh. "Yes, all my fruit is nice!"
Still, on a day where I manage a decent egg and find a ripe mango and sit down with my coffee, looking out at the dhows slowly drifting on the azure sea, I remind myself that there are more important things in life than the quest for the perfect egg. But not many.
Wednesday, 17 October 2007
Beach life
Well, it seems like every day I intend to sit down and blog some more but never quite get round to it so I've decided to grab this quiet halfr hour in the dive shop to blog to my heart's content. Blog, blog, blog, blog, blog... and relax.
I've got so much to tell but I think the best way to describe life out here is to give you a run down of an average day. I get up at 7.am. I brush my teeth. I set the toaster to three: medium brown. No, I'm kidding.
Most days I'm up at about 7.30 (where's my holiday?) and stumble out onto the veranda with a mug of coffee and fried egg sandwich. Idrissa, the local guy who owns the house we're staying in brings us a fresh loaf every morning. The view of the gorgeous turquoise ocean usually wakes me up and, after an attempt at meditation, usually interrupted by the cleaner's screaming kids, it's off down the beach for a swim. There's some sort of galleon moored about 200 yards out, so every morning it's a race to see who can get there first to lay claim to this fine bounty (in best pirate accent!).
Then it's up to the dive shop where we lug heavy tanks and sort people out with wetsuits and the like and generally stop people from putting their equipment on back to front or blowing themselves up. It's a pretty cool atmosphere, everyone drifts in and says good morning, has a little chat. The day then consists of diving (which is awesome round here), learning PADI dive theory ( a lot of which is bullshit revolving around marketing PADI) and doing training dives. By the time 6pm rolls around I am usually very wet and tired and dying for a beer.
In the evening, either we cook dinner on a fire out back or head down to one of the beach bars for some seafood and a brew (1 pint of 5.5% for a quid - three quids worth and i'm usually on the floor). The atmosphere is pretty lively and there are a lot of characters around, including "captain morgan", the local drunk, named for his fondness for this particular tipple.
Sad to say but I'm usually in bed by ten, absolutely wiped out and lulled to sleep by the sounds of Bob Marley (or sometimes terrible euro trance) rolling down the beach from the bar.
I have to say, I'm pretty happy.
I've got so much to tell but I think the best way to describe life out here is to give you a run down of an average day. I get up at 7.am. I brush my teeth. I set the toaster to three: medium brown. No, I'm kidding.
Most days I'm up at about 7.30 (where's my holiday?) and stumble out onto the veranda with a mug of coffee and fried egg sandwich. Idrissa, the local guy who owns the house we're staying in brings us a fresh loaf every morning. The view of the gorgeous turquoise ocean usually wakes me up and, after an attempt at meditation, usually interrupted by the cleaner's screaming kids, it's off down the beach for a swim. There's some sort of galleon moored about 200 yards out, so every morning it's a race to see who can get there first to lay claim to this fine bounty (in best pirate accent!).
Then it's up to the dive shop where we lug heavy tanks and sort people out with wetsuits and the like and generally stop people from putting their equipment on back to front or blowing themselves up. It's a pretty cool atmosphere, everyone drifts in and says good morning, has a little chat. The day then consists of diving (which is awesome round here), learning PADI dive theory ( a lot of which is bullshit revolving around marketing PADI) and doing training dives. By the time 6pm rolls around I am usually very wet and tired and dying for a beer.
In the evening, either we cook dinner on a fire out back or head down to one of the beach bars for some seafood and a brew (1 pint of 5.5% for a quid - three quids worth and i'm usually on the floor). The atmosphere is pretty lively and there are a lot of characters around, including "captain morgan", the local drunk, named for his fondness for this particular tipple.
Sad to say but I'm usually in bed by ten, absolutely wiped out and lulled to sleep by the sounds of Bob Marley (or sometimes terrible euro trance) rolling down the beach from the bar.
I have to say, I'm pretty happy.
Friday, 12 October 2007
Rock my world
Well, it's been a crazy few days, I don't even know where to start. It took us preceisely 24 hours to reach Kendwa beach on Zanzibar. Along the way, we were asked by a police man "what our problem was" as we unwittingly marched in front of a political procession at the airport, Zan Air demanded 75 dollars more than I had already paid them, before accepting the fact that they owe ME 17 dollars, we took a terrifying 9 seater plane with the same overweight pilot as last time (why oh why did i put myself through that again?), our friendly taximan bought us fresh coconuts on the way up here whilst chatting incomprehensible swahili all the way.
Kendwa is almost as awesome as I remember, a bit more touristy but we've managed to rent a room from a local guy and we have our own cooking facilities. I've started my divemaster course, which has been pretty cool, assisted a dive for the first time today and stopped some Americans from being... well American underwater. My knees are now incredibly sunburnt from sitting on a dive boat all day...
Yesterday, Rose and Ania donned headscarves and went to market to get some veg so we had fresh potato and aubergine curry on the veranda last night which was awesome. It's the end of Ramadan tomorrow and Jamie and James (friends from home) are leaving tonight so I'm looking forward to two fun nights.
I'll add some more when my head is spinning less metaphorically and literally. Drop me some emails!
Kendwa is almost as awesome as I remember, a bit more touristy but we've managed to rent a room from a local guy and we have our own cooking facilities. I've started my divemaster course, which has been pretty cool, assisted a dive for the first time today and stopped some Americans from being... well American underwater. My knees are now incredibly sunburnt from sitting on a dive boat all day...
Yesterday, Rose and Ania donned headscarves and went to market to get some veg so we had fresh potato and aubergine curry on the veranda last night which was awesome. It's the end of Ramadan tomorrow and Jamie and James (friends from home) are leaving tonight so I'm looking forward to two fun nights.
I'll add some more when my head is spinning less metaphorically and literally. Drop me some emails!
Saturday, 6 October 2007
I'm in shiny Doha airport at a mysteriously free internet point... at least I think it's free and I'm not just stealing internet time. Apparently I get ten minutes til I have to log off. It's 6.30 am here, still 3 a.m for me and it's 29 degrees. You can buy a choice of mercedes or bmws in the duty free here. I chose a Mercedes but apparently it won't fit in my hand luggage. Damn. As you can tell, I'm in a bit of a valium and jetlag stupor so I think I'll stop writing now. Tanzania here we come!
The Horror...
This is a very bad map of where I will be going. Zanzibar, that little island off the coast of Tanzania is the beautiful place we'll be calling home for the next three months. Look it up on Google Maps Satellite view (TM) for a much better impression. If I get time, I'll set up a map of Doha, the little airport in Qatar that we'll be spending two exciting hours, jetlagged and confused, sometime tomorrow evening.. or is it morning.. I never remember how the time zones work.
Escape
Welcome, travel fans, to my travel blog, a handy way to waste time whether you're at home, have got an impending coursework assignment or really need to get the Johnson account finished by 5 o'clock. During the next 9-18 months, I'll be keeping you updated with various tales (some true, most of them made-up) of daring-do on the high sea and bare-knuckle shark fighting. My travels have already got off to an auspicious start, with the Tanzanian Embassy giving me a great taste of things to come when THEY lost my receipt for £76 of visa payment and returned my application to me with a note saying "please supply original receipts"... cue much confusion and misunderstanding at the embassy: "so you want a refund"" / "so YOU've lost your receipts"" / "Where are your receipts"" / "Okay, that'll be £76 then please" - ah the fun...We're staying with friends tonight and I plan to be utterly hungover and exhausted for my 21 hour plane flight via Turkmenigashtan or some such made up country. Until next time!
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