A ROAD ANGEL APPEARS -- AND THE EXOTIC SPICE ISLAND OF ZANZIBAR

The attempt to fly directly to Dar es Salaam – the largest city and capitol of Tanzania in all but name only – following the return trip to Nampula does not bear immediate fruit.  All the seats are sold for the day.  The website for LAM Airlines (and a number of others) also will not accept online bookings within 24 hours of departure -- which really means within about 36 hours of departure.  I’ve been through this before, in Rio de Janeiro, stuck at the end of Carnival without a guaranteed departure seat and everybody and their entourage trying to make it out of town.

While at the airport I attempt to get airline personnel to help.  They are too busy with a recent flight, and can not assist.  An office across the midway is noted, with a sole occupant seemingly lacking pressing duties.  I duck into his office and inquire about a workaround.  He indicates it will be all right to both use his computer and stow my gear, then shows me a way to bypass the 24 hour black-out online booking blackout.  It becomes possible to get tickets to Dar after all for the next morning.

Once done and paid for (and with a hefty $45 savings over the direct ticket window) the same gentleman asks where I am to be staying for the night?  The answer is a probable return to Nampula’s Ruby Backpackers.  “Just a minute,” he says.  “I think there is something better  we can do for you.”  He quickly checks a schedule on a clipboard to the side of his desk, then allows: “We don’t have any pilots in town tonight.  You are free to use our layover house that is reserved for them.”

He notices my hesitation.  This gift is coming out of nowhere.  I am feeling a need to get grounded, and am wondering if the place is merely a dive bunkhouse close to the airport.  “Oh, don’t worry,” he continued, as if reading my mind.  “It has only one bedroom, with a King Bed, air conditioning, its own kitchen, a security detail, television, and a space-age bathroom.”   After a moment’s hesitation, he adds: “It’s free.” He then offers a ride with one of his assistants to the location.

By way of this out-of-the-blue perplexing scenario, I am introduced to my latest Road Angel, Litovio.  I mention him not only out of his kindness and generosity, but due to the circumstances under which he his generosity presented itself.  There was no “situation.”  No panic.  No circumstance of being isolated in a strange town and without money – like in Cuba in 2013.  His offer just came out of the blue.  I never really did find out what Litovio did job wise.  Nobody else seemed to interact with him.  It was not clear who he worked for.  He seemed to have plenty of free time to assist me.  It appeared as if he was a divine plant.  Was I being tested in some way?

We journeyed over to the pilot layover residence in about ten minutes.  Litovio provided a mini-tour of Nampula along the way, making sure to point out the shopping center, cash machines, and a place I might get my camera repaired or acquire a new one – since my treasured lightweight Canon digital S2500 had crapped out on me in Mozambique Island, probably from the humidity.

The evening is spent camera hunting, enjoying my first African monsoon while walking the streets of Nampula, procuring food at Shopright (a large African chain much like Safeway or Albertsons in the United States), and then writing in complete peace in the evening.  Only the security guard coming around to check on me presents any interruption.  I gladly share my homemade dinner of salad, rice, Portugese sausage and spaghetti with him.  He seems utterly shocked at the offer.

In the morning, Litovio has arranged for a vehicle to come pick me up at the pilot house.  Again, no necessity to pay for the taxi.  At the airport waiting area, I attempt to repay him in a very small way with a gift of coffee and three take-home beers; one of each available local brand.  Then off to Dar es Salaam, the largest city in Tanzania and the capitol of the country in all but name only.

My two hour northbound flight is routine except for the incredible view from 20,000 feet of the Quirimbas Archipelago, which stretches roughly from Pemba (eight hours by bus from Nampula) to the Tanzania border.  These offshore islands – the most famous of which is Ibo, known for being suspended in a Portugese colonial timewarp – simply astound with the richness and variety of their blue-green wave patterns, surf flurries, reef breakers, and dormant lagoons and atolls.  The iridescent water appears as if backlit from underneath.

Most of the islands are heavily foliated in a deep verdant green mangrove thicket.  There is some settlement, but no rhyme or reason as to where.  The populated areas are not always closest to the mainland nor to the nearest harbor or sheltered cove.  Palm trees prevail along the coastal sandy areas.  The view is very Caribbean.

There is nothing I particularly want to see in Dar.  Like most large cities, it is to be avoided mostly, as it is more of a flytrap with all the street touts (pseudo arrangers and phony ticket providers), overpriced taxis, extortion rate money exchangers, crappy hotels that promise the moon and don’t even deliver hot water, and so-called restaurants where not even rats would dine.

My very courteous Indian taxi driver takes me from the airport directly to the Zanzibar ferry.  But I miss the last departure for the day at 4 PM by five minutes, and have to settle for exchanging paper money from South Africa, Mozambique, and Zimbabwe (nobody wants anything to do with the Malawi money).  He extends his hospitality by waiting while I negotiate for a hotel, then takes me to the cash machine.  Overall I have found Indian providers – be they merchants or taxi drivers or restauranteurs and no matter what country they reside in – to have much more integrity than most other locals found  along the way.

The fast ferry hydrofoil to Zanzibar takes 90 minutes for the 50 mile crossing.  My cost is $40 for Executive Class, which includes air conditioning.  The boarding is routine, except for a continuation of the sideways monsoon of the previous few days, and all the Tanzanian women pushing and butting in line.  The situation is amusing, if for no other reason than the men seem to do very little of this line crashing.  It seems to largely be an estrogen related sport.

Upon arrival I am fortunate to be introduced in the taxi line to Seif Tembo, probably the senior taxi driver on the island.  He takes me around to my initial hotel of choice, talks me out of it (and agrees to a lower fare to preserve his credibility), then once again waits on standbye while bags and backpack are unloaded and directs me on his own to several notable Swahili restaurants, the main market, and Zanzibar’s famous spice market.  I am only too happy to pay him more than initially agreed.

Zanzibar – actually the name for an archipelago of islands, of which Unguja is the most visited and the most famous – is known for its complete change of pace from the mainland, and its illustrious past.  From about the eighth century on, Persian traders established a presence on the islands.  From the 12^th to 15^th centuries, Unguja became a powerful city-state, importing glassware, spices, and textiles and exporting gold, ivory, wood, and sadly slaves.

In the 16^th century Portugal took control over the archipelago, followed by Omani Arabs and later the British – who created a Protectorate there while still allowing Omani Royalty to retain nominal rule.  The area became so prosperous that The Sultan of Oman relocated his court from the Persian Gulf to Unguja in 1846.  In 1892 the islands gained their independence from Oman, and joined mainland Tanganyika in 1964 to form the tenuous United Republic of Tanzania.

This place is remarkable, not for its pristine beauty, but for the variety of its religions, customs, ethnicities, architecture, types of food, and smells.  The shopping bazaar should really be called “The Bizarre” for its tiny narrow twisting alleys, its narrow shadowy interiors, strange offerings of exotic goods, and fascinating mix of ethnicities (primarily black, Persian, Indian, and Arab).  The place truly is a melting pot, in the way America used to be. Religious tolerance is the norm in Zanzibar, though the islands are about 97% Muslim.  Which makes finding a beer or mixed drink a very difficult task at times.

After making an arrangement to stay at Jambo Guest House (a backpacker type haven with reasonable hostel type costs and all amenities except for private baths), the heat and humidity immediately drive a reasonable man to drink.  Using largely hand signals, a man at one of the bazaar shops walks me half a mile through the maze of cobbled streets and alleys in the bazaar to a rooftop watering hole with a territorial view out over the mainland and neighboring islands.

The beers are too expensive compared to recent travels, but that is probably where supply and demand come into play.  Rarity spikes prices.  My liquor guide lets on that he is Muslim, but enjoys an occasional beer.  As do many of his fellow Muslims.  That was supposed to be the tradeoff for his directions.  But as it becomes time to leave, as so often happens, he changes his story.  He now wants a contribution as well.  I remind myself to clarify up front afterward there will be no contributions – only sharing of a couple beers as recompense for direction or accompaniment.

The Lukman Restaurant near the Spice Market next commands my attention.  It is known for its local dishes and Swahili food.  Mostly locals are eating here.  The small shop with its buffet type offerings is not feted in any tourist guides that I have seen, and is vastly underrated.  I spend the next two hours, savoring small portions of multiple dishes served over rice or noodles, and washed down with delicious karkade – hibiscus passion juice.

The food included: pilau (rice browned with fat and spices) … ugali (cooked maize flour dough) … muhogo wa nazi (cassava root cooked with coconut) … mchuzi wa chaza (clam and oyster curry) … mchozi wa mboga wa nazi (carrots with green peppers) and …mkate wa kusukuma (chapatti bread).  I find the pilau particularly appealing.

On another meal the following day, I sampled at the Dolphin Restaurant similar food but packed inside a Mexican quesadilla.  It too, was delicious.  Most notable was a drink sampled out of sheer curiosity: “The Dolphin Drink.”  It looked like a green vegetable shake … not particularly appealing.  But with lime, sugar, honey, mint, and soda as ingredients, the taste belied the appearance.  I drank two.

Just away from the spice market, is the former slave market – the largest on the east coast of Africa.  It is now the site of the Zanzibar Anglican Church, begun by British missionaries in 1873 when slavery was officially abolished (much of the credit for that went to explorer David Livingstone, whose end-of-life mission was to abolish the 300 years of white participation in slavery within Africa).  A spot where the whipping post was located near the center of the market, is now symbolically the high altar of the church.

The whipping post was essentially used as a test stand.  Slaves were brought up for auction, chained, and then whipped.  Those who were strong stood up to the whipping well and brought top dollar.  Those who suffered badly, brought small offers at auction and had a much lesser survival rate.  I witnessed two rooms that were utilized for the storage of slaves until the arrival of ships to take them to India, the Americas and The Caribbean.  They were segregated by gender.

The first held 50 men.  It was perhaps 12 x 40 feet, with a human waste trench in the middle, low ceilings, very little ventilation, and even less light.  The second held 75 women and children.  It was barely larger.  The survival rate in such holes was about 50%.  A slave was considered a good buy and likely to survive an ocean crossing if they first survived the waiting, lack of food, insufficient ventilation, dim light, and horrid sanitation in these rooms.

During the evening hours, I met up on the street with a helpful young man named Pongo.  At first, as always, it appears he wants to “practice his English.”  He directs me to various places around the bazaar, including various camera shops and then the spice market (where I bought saffron threads and four bars of scented soap).  I offer him a beer as a reward and inducement for further conversation.  Upon arrival, however, he passes on the beer and requests money for his four children instead.  He is a fisherman.  “The rain keeps us from going out lately,” he says.  “Besides, the Chinese trawlers are taking all the fish.”  I break my own rules and agree on a small cash payment.

Stone town (so named due to the coral content in the permanent buildings during the Portugese colonial era) is small enough that I run into Pongo the next day.  He is delighted to see me.  I am wary.  But he is delighted with some clothing purchases he had made, which he says will be leveraged into greater profit by selling them to other fisherman.  “This will help my children eat,” he proudly exclaims, then shows me his new larder.

Pongo also helps me tour the old Portugese Fort in Stone Town, and assists in getting some bargain flight tickets at a travel agency inside the fort.  He asks no further recompense.  He also directs me to the dynamic Beit el-Sahel (“Palace by The Sea” or Sultan’s Palace), the home of the Omani Sultans and now a museum devoted to the line of Omani royalty that ruled over Zanzibar up to 1892.

I am particularly impressed by the Indian hand-made diplomatic waiting room furniture, ancient maps adorning the walls of the palace, and the parchment commercial treaties Zanzibar entered into with the world powers of the 19^th century, including the United States in approximately 1834.

Stone Town, The Spice Market, the Bazaar, and even much of Unguja’s waterfront is a rabbit warren of cobbled streets, narrow dirt alleys, recessed shops, and twisting watercourses.  You always wonder how anybody navigates at all in this labyrinth.  And yet everybody seems to eventually find their intended location.  It is fun, weaving a route without intent, with discovery awaiting you at every turn.

Searching for a new dinner spot on my final night in Stone Town, I encounter a young man named Ken.  He had earlier directed me to a recommended restaurant which turned out to be closed.  When he saw me looking again afterward, he took offense, and asked why I had not come back seeking him out for further direction?  I laughed at this assumptiveness.  Yankees don’t take to ownership well, I mused to myself.  Ken directs me then to an eatery  called “The Chinese Restaurant.” where alcohol and a varied menu are available. He offers to walk me there.

I accept.  But only after a long preamble about trading for a beer only.  No food, no offering, no reward, no recompense of any kind.  He agrees to this.  And then upon being seated while I dine, suddenly remembers he is on medication and can’t drink alcohol.  He wishes to substitute food.  Apparently Ken is well known at this dining establishment and brings people here regularly.  I agree when it is discovered the outlay on my part will remain the same.

But Ken has also spoken to the waiter in Swahili.  When the food arrives, there are beef samosas and spring rolls for him, plus a huge bowl of seafood soup.  He starts to reach for it.  I interject.  “What is THIS?” I demand loudly.  “This is not part of the agreement.”  Ken sulks, and falls back on the old saw about how the waiter probably misunderstood.  And slyly suggests, now that the soup is here, we may as well share … I indicate to the waiter I will refuse to pay for the soup, and have it sent away.

I have a great deal of difficulty shaking Ken after dinner.  He wants to know which hotel or hostel I am staying at.  Experience ensures this is information not to be shared.  “I don’t know,” I claim vaguely, “I just know how to get there.”  He thanks me for dinner.  Then asks for a donation.  I remind him of our earlier agreement.  He does not care.  “So, you find no value in my contributions?  You don’t think my suggestions and directions are worth anything?

I am so sick of this ploy by now, I nearly push him away.  It is characteristic of male street Tanzanians.  Not quite touts, not directing you into an off-site hole-in-the-wall office to purchase phony tickets, but dodgy nevertheless.  I find them almost universally exuberant, persistent, charming, but sly, manipulative, and always reneging on agreements.  There is no such thing as abiding by terms to these creatures.  Everything can and should be re-negotiated up to the very end in their viewpoint.  I develop a learning curve very early on, dealing with this class of Africans.

My final act in Zanzibar is to conclude the purchase of a safari package to both the Ngorongoro Crater and Serengeti National Park, two must-see Tanzania highlights about eleven hours to the northwest.  The young man at the ticket office who had provided two cut-rate flight tickets to the safari marshaling center of Arusha, helped arrange the package.  I made him write down all costs on a line-item basis, then initial each one, and then sign the offer sheet.  He agreed.  “You will be met by Bora when you arrive in Arusha tomorrow, he said.  “He will take care of everything related to both parks.”