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...
Saturday, 27 October 2007
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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