In Stone Town

I’m awake early enough to hear the rainstorm that occurs just before dawn. Breakfast includes some exotic dishes and juices like milk fruit and tamarind, and there is local coffee which is spiced similarly to masala tea.

The oldest part of Zanzibar City is known as Stone Town, because it’s built of stone on an island where most buildings are either mud or wood.

The stone is actually coral, because the island was pushed up from the seabed by seismic activity.  We have a tour of Stone Town this morning, led by Wilfred who is an engaging guide with a disconcerting habit of ending every sentence with “understand?”. He explains something of the history and culture as we walk through the medina, where the streets are too narrow for cars but we have plenty of cycles, motorbikes and hand carts to negotiate.

He explains the origins of the spikes on the doors, which were introduced by Indian immigrants who were accustomed to using them for protection against marauding elephants – they are redundant here as there are no large mammals on the island, but they were retained as a status symbol. We pass various landmarks including the Catholic cathedral, which is adjacent to a mosque; Wilfred explains that although the population is primarily conservative Muslim, there is no religious conflict here.

We reach the Anglican cathedral, which has Islamic-inspired architecture, and Wilfred tells us how it was built on top of the slave chambers as a gesture of reconciliation after slavery was abolished. We visit the slave chambers which are claustrophobic spaces where most of us can’t stand upright. Then we visit the museum which traces the history of the slave trade in Zanzibar. It’s shameful to think that the British were complicit in slavery, and it’s sobering to read the accounts in the museum’s exhibits.

We’re subdued on the way to the local market, where there are separate halls for fish and for meat, both stinky and fly-ridden. It’s a relief to move on to the fragranced halls where fruit, veg and spices are sold. I pop back in with Sharon, Andrew and Emily for some shopping and pick up a souvenir spice pack and 2 packets of saffron for $5. Spices are the primary trade here and along the narrow streets there are often spices laid out to dry in the sun.

We continue to the small square where political discourse takes places and, perhaps not coincidentally, English Premier League matches are shown. Then we go to look at the House of Wonders – a former sultan’s palace that served as the National Museum until a partial collapse closed it. Next door is the fort and in front the Forodhani Gardens which were refurbished with a grant from the Aga Khan and in the evening hosts a popular food market.

We return to the hotel via Freddie Mercury’s house, which is now apartments under the same ownership as our hotel. We’ve said goodbye to Wilfred before I remember that tipping is now our responsibility (on the mainland, Isaac had tipped everybody from a group kitty).

We sit by the pool with cold drinks and plan the rest of the day - pool for the boys, and a bumble around Stone Town for me, then Ethiopian dinner. I walk down to Ethiopia Maritim to book a table then we set off along the beach in search of lunch. It’s much quieter beyond our hotel. Even here in Zanzibar, Maasai stride purposefully in their robes but seem out of place on a beach when they are so much part of the landscape of the bush. There are a couple of beachfront cafes but it doesn’t feel like full advantage is being made of the waterfront.

We return to Kenyatta Road (not that there are any signs to identify it!) and dodge the traffic, walking up towards Ethiopia Maritim and stopping at an Indian restaurant for lunch. Service is slow but the beer is cold and its relatively cool inside. Although there’s not much seasonal change near the equator this is the cooler season but the humidity makes it feel hotter. After lunch we stop at a shop called Hellen’s for a fridge magnet and are offered paintings done by the lively proprietress. Some are excellent, especially watercolours of the town, but we decline.

I drop the boys at the hotel and walk towards the Palace Museum. It costs $3 to go in and I’m offered an official tour guide who I share with a South African woman. There are dusty cabinets containing records about the sultans and some of the original furniture is still in place on the upper floor, but the palace has an institutional feel and seems pretty Spartan given that it was last occupied within my lifetime. There’s a fantastic view from the terraces though.

I visit the fort, which is in a poor state of repair with crumbling towers and has been given over to a souvenir market. I get the sense that there’s little investment in preserving Stone Town, despite its Unesco status and the tourist dollars it attracts. I wonder where the money goes? Is there a rich and powerful elite here that is sucking the money and power out of the government? Those vehicles cruising around last night would seem to support that premise.

In Gizenga Street I stop to look at some spices and the stall owner begins to pressure me to buy, finally quoting a price that is so hugely inflated I can’t be bothered to make him an offer. I’m hot, tired and beginning to have a sense of humour failure. I’d forgotten how much I hate bartering. I decide to leave and the price magically drops to a level that I know is still inflated but closer to what I paid this morning. I pay up and leave.

Close to the hotel I stop to buy some Baobab candy from a handcart run by some youths. I ask the price which is TS1,000 and pay up happily – so much easier and the price seems fair even though it’s probably still “tourist rates”. A scruffy man with dreads approaches me with shell necklaces – he claims he’s homeless and makes them himself. I don’t really believe his story, and balk at the $15 dollars he’s asking, but he’s very persistent so I offer him TS10,000 and tell him to keep the necklace. He gives it to me anyway.

I join the boys for pool volleyball and then go to the beach to take some photos of the sunset. The local youths are doing acrobatics again, this time with music. Simon and I walk down to the Park Hyatt for a drink and Alex meets us there for the short walk to Ethiopia Maritim. It’s beautiful inside, with incense burning and a carpet of bougainvillea flowers. They seat us at a table containing a massive covered basked shaped like a tagine, and the waiter removes the cover with a flourish to reveal a laminated sheet explaining how the food and culture. We work out what to order and settle down with our drinks. Time passes. It sprinkles with rain. More time passes. We watch a woman video herself complaining that she’s been there over and hour and they’ve only washed her hands.

The waiter comes over to tell us that the salad we ordered isn’t available, then they wash our hands. Finally the soup arrives. It’s good – lamb broth with vegetables – and there’s plenty of it. We wait some more. Finally, the main course – a large stainless stell platter covered by injeera – a flatbread with the consistency somewhere between a pancake and a thin crumpet. The bowls of meat and sauce are tipped onto it in heaps - the idea is to scoop it up with pieces of injeera. It’s tasty, with a mild but complex heat, but the chicken dish consists of a leg, which is difficult to share when your only implement is fingers, and we’ve all gone past being hungry.