Beanland Diary - Zanzibar

Dear Readers,

I slid a crisp $100 bill across the counter, which was wood and worn smooth by years of such actions. “Zanzibar, please, round trip.” The airline agent, a young guy in jeans and a Tupac t-shirt, swiped the money without raising his eyes from his cell phone. In exchange he pushed a paper form and pen in my direction. “You name please.”

It appeared that valid identification was not a requirement for this journey, so I saw fit to use my travel pseudonym. I scribbled “Dunk Stevens” in the name box, wrinkling the bottom of the paper with my sweaty palm. “What day you want come back?” he mumbled.

“Today,” I answered. “I’ll be coming back later today.”

“Luggage?” He asked. I lifted only a slim briefcase, black canvas embroidered in white with “NISA Investment Advisors”, and smiled. Inside were a travel towel, a tube of sun block, a notebook and pen, an envelope full of Tanzanian shillings, and a photocopy of my vaccination history. Dunk brings only the necessities.

My meetings from the work week, scheduled rather hastily, had left me with only a 24 hour window in which to play in this new country. Happily, this is plenty of time to consume a hefty helping of the wonders of Zanzibar, the spice island, just off the coast from Dar es Salaam. The history of this place is fascinating. In the last 1000 years it’s changed ownership about as often as Constantinople and the mix of influences is evident in the food, the architecture, the language, and so on. Getting into those details is beyond the scope of this publication, but I highly recommend a visit to the Zanzibar wikipedia page.

This flight was not from the main Dar int’l airport, but from the old airport that services only domestic destinations within Tanzania. There are about three such destinations. Not a surprise, then, that the atmosphere at the airport was extremely laid-back. Security was non-existent, and once I got my ticket I breezed past a row of empty customs booths and right out onto the tarmac toward the plane. Heat radiated off the asphalt in slow waves.

Within the hour, I found myself sitting at a table set in the sand on the beach in Zanzibar, drinking a cappuccino and planning my day. I had about six hours before I had asked Salim, my cab driver, to run me back to the airport. What to do? I had some excellent options. World-class beaches…spice farm tours…museums… No. None of these grabbed me.

I leaned back and nibbled on a clove biscuit. Then, it struck me. Yes. YES! It was simultaneously the best and worst idea I had ever had. I sat frozen for a moment, rolling it over in my mind, and a smile curled on my lips.

I would procure a motorcycle to explore this island.

Of course, I had never ridden a motorcycle before and had no license or training whatsoever. I had tried to rent one in Greece and been denied, on the basis that one actually needed previous experience first. I was given instead a 4-wheel quad runner with a lawnmower engine – it might as well have been a tricycle with rainbow ribbons. But I guessed, correctly, that standards would be more lax here in Tanzania.

I flip-flopped over to the transit police office and the helpful young officer informed me that, yes, I could get a permit for about $10. Excellent. He squinted briefly at my Missouri driver’s license and asked no questions. Handing it back, he dialed a number on his cell and had a quick conversation in Swahili. “My friend come pick you up. He give motorcycle.” How convenient, I thought, that the government office in charge of issuing permits has a direct link to the businessmen renting the vehicles.

Ten minutes later a middle-aged Zanzibari man with a friendly face and a stubbly gray beard arrived to pick me up. He mumbled his name and I didn’t understand. I just nodded. Let’s call him Ishmael.

Ishmael took me to an empty football field outside of town and gave me a crash course in motorcycle riding. The course was brief but covered a lot: starting, stopping, switching gears, blinkers, horn, gas (gauge busted), oil, and even how much to pay someone to help me change the tire. I hopped on and after a few false starts, circled twice around the field, keeping the machine in first gear the entire time. Ishmael waved me down, and I pulled up to a jerky stop, killing the engine. Since I’d left a minute ago, he had lit up an enormous joint, which was dangling from his lips and sending smoke ribbons into the air.

“You look good. You feel good?”

With an entirely straight face I said, “Yup, I feel good.”

“Good.” From his pocket he took a folded piece of paper – a blank photocopy of a Zanzibari driver’s permit. He hunched forward, taking a long pull on the joint, and on his knee he signed his own name on the permit under the heading “Signature of Certifying Officer.”

I realized quickly that Zanzibar is not the ideal place for an American to learn something like motorcycle riding. For one thing, traffic flows on the left side, British style. Even behind the familiarity of a car steering wheel, this would require full concentration at first. Also, as in most developing countries, a set of defined rules of the road exist only in theory, if at all. The de facto law is that chaos and anarchy reign.

Within what appears to be one single lane of traffic, there are actually four sub-lanes. Farthest left are the bicycles, who hug the side of the road right up to the dirt. To their right are the wooden carts drawn by oxen or goats, moving at snail’s pace but too big to be muscled off the road. Then, the narrow channel carved out for the motorcycles and scooters. Furthest right you find the cars and dalla-dalla busses, which cut across all other sub-lanes, with no warning, to pick up and drop off passengers.

I’ll admit that I had some serious problems at first. My reflex reaction to brake was to twist the right handle, which I must’ve learned from some video game or dirt bike as a kid. Well, twisting the right handle is basically like slamming your foot down on the gas pedal in a car. I knew it was wrong, but just couldn’t override this reflex when I needed to react quickly. Several times I would try to brake, but instead rocket forward directly into whatever intersection or obstacle I was trying to avoid. Jesus! After the third time I slid left into the ox cart lane for a breather. Whew.

I got the hang of it eventually, but it took literally all my conscious effort to manage the bike and negotiate the other road obstacles around me. I headed out of the bustle of Stone Town towards the closest beaches about 15km to the north, in a town called Bububu. No, that’s not a typo. Bububu. I challenge readers to say that name out loud without laughing.

Thankfully, the rest of my ride was uneventful. I cruised north and, once the traffic thinned, got to really enjoying the ride. I was probably going about 20 miles an hour but it felt like 60. I saw not a single other mzungu and got plenty of hoots and hollers from the kids on the side of the road. I threw them a big thumbs-up. Jambo!

I returned the bike a few hours later and celebrated my adventure with a liter of Tusker and fish tacos. The restaurant I found is called Mercury’s, and it has a perfect view of the bay and the dhow boats tethered along the beach. If you ever make it to Zanzibar, drop by. The place is named in honor of Freddie Mercury of Queen. No joke! There was even a bio on Freddie inside the menu. Apparently he was born in Zanzibar. If any reader wins a trivia jackpot on that little information gem, I kindly request a 50/50 split.

Atentamente,

Your correspondent, 78 Haile Selassie Road, Dar es Salaam, Tanzania