There is Magic in the Air

July/August 2007 (Zanzibar and Pemba)

HILDA IN A DHOW


THERE IS MAGIC IN THE AIR


Comparing the three main East African Muslim towns I have visit during this trip, I can understand why I never felt comfortable with Harar in Ethiopia. Although this walled city has 100 mosques, most of them are hidden within private dwellings. The locals indulge in chewing chat to a very large extent and the sides of streets are full of semi-comatose men (in other Muslim towns in Ethiopia I also realised that it becomes a habit to work until lunch-time and then, after lunch, to begin chewing, so that not much work is done in the afternoons). And what I cannot forgive the locals for in Harar, is the fact that the best coffee in the world, which comes from the area around Harar, is being extinguished because the production of chat is more profitable. Well, we should pay more for our coffee, is the answer.

Lamu is charming with its narrow streets and fat donkeys. Nothing much happens and the tourists are tolerated and exploited, the sea is wonderful, but the soul is missing.

Stone Town is the only big town in Zanzibar and was named thus when it was built by the Omani invaders/traders. Coral stones rather than the usual wood and mud of the local’s homes was used. I saw a sketch of 1980 which is done from the east side of town. The Anglican Cathedral which was built on the area used for the recently prohibited slave trade dominates the skyline. In front of it is a creek with boats, thus showing how the original town was built on an island. Today Creek street is a busy two-lane road and mzungus hardly ever venture beyond. The narrow streets are slightly wider than those of Lamu and one has to dodge bicycles, scooters and motorbikes instead of donkeys. There are 53 mosques and many of them are large and impressive. The locals are incredibly friendly and 'Jambo' is a constant call. One feels completely safe and can walk the lanes at any time of the day or night. The fact that the Maasai are here in force in the numerous TTs (tourist traps), adds colour to the streets. Friendliness abounds. And one is soon sucked into the magic…

Bliss, Bliss, Bliss....endless murders, killings, shootings, suicide, torture, rapes, child abuse, wife abuse, sex by the bucket-load, kissing, singing, dancing and all kinds of other human emotions and actions. All this within ten days!! What is happening in Africa? you may ask. But this was not restricted to Africa alone. Global exposure at the 10th annual Zanzibar Film Festival left me reeling. From 9am 'till 11pm at night, I could indulge to my heart's content. This is what I will do in future, I have decided; go to Film Festivals and just sit and watch.... Bliss.

With a season's pass and about 100 films to choose from, you can imagine my delight. Well, sometimes the films did not turn up, or the DVD was not compatible/restricted, or the film disk broke down and you never saw the end, or the film started before the time advertised (even if there was no audience!), or there was no announcement about change in programme, or the order of showing was altered, or ....you get the picture. After 10 years one would expect a bit of efficiency, but TIA. I spoke to a lady who had tried to train the chap in charge of the DVD player last year. For example she had told him to wait until the advertised time before he started a film. But he is now in charge and his African power meant that he could do as he pleased. We just quietly pulled our hair out.

Having said that, we did view most of the stuff and it was a great joy to see what is happening all over the film world. Although the theme was Dreams and Water, it was not really adhered to and more attention was placed on the Slave Trade anniversary celebrations. The Danish film industry is remarkably advanced in child-orientated films (25% of the Govt. subsidy for films has to be for children) and they were a revelation. I marveled at how directors elicited acting from such young people, but also wondered to what extent child actors can be affected by the stuff they have to do when asked to portray horrific scenes/emotions. Good films from various countries about the problems faced by refugees/immigrants emphasized so much heartlessness and prejudice in our society. A stark film about child gangs in Kibera (Nairobi--largest slum in Africa) reminded me of the happy day we spent there. Discussions afterwards could be hi-jacked by the strident Afro-Americans who would not give an inch to reason or forgiveness 200 years after slavery ended. How much longer has one to carry a chip on a shoulder? On the other hand, the South African films were wonderfully forgiving or evocatively made. No excuses, but reality did not elicit justifications/anger/unforgiveness. One of my favourites was a year in the life of a white beggar in the streets of Johannesburg. The outside world does not always accept that this kind of situation exists in SA. Also very moving and inspiring is a film about the street sweepers of JHB. Every night these courageous women come out to sweep the unspeakably dirty streets and to face muggings and shootings. As one of them said; "There was more discipline during Apartheid and people did not just throw stuff into the streets like now". My arrogant prejudices against Bollywood films was laid to rest by two stories which had no mad music and dancing or endless colourful kisses. I look forward to seeing more of them.

African-produced films are mature and well-made. It is a market with potentially vast audiences and the variety and content was truly inspiring. A few films were about Rap or Hip Hop and one can see the incredible influence these artists have over their audiences. Can protest ever be snuffed out when such a strong tool is available? Being a young industry, it is good to know that there is much collecting and archive recording of African-made films. I salute them!

I sent this version of my impressions of ZIFF to a friend involved in the film world. He wrote: It sounds excellent and slightly hilarious. There’s a beautiful charm to its shambolic nature and it is actually refreshing in comparison to the arrogant slickness of the western film world which I hate.

The Magic of Zanzibar continued (or it just shows how popular this island is):

Because I often seem to not receive emails sent to me, this time I missed an important one. A friend from Lalibela in Ethiopia had emailed to ask where in Africa I was, as she and her Ethiopian husband were going to Tanzania for a holiday. We might just be able to meet up. Thus, with no knowledge of the fact that she was even in Tanzania, I was dashing through the museum to see a film when I saw a faintly familiar figure. After a double-take, I returned and saw it was her! What are the chances of meeting like that? (small world) We had some good times together in Stone Town and on a beach on the East Coast. Travelling back through the only natural forest on the island, I watched one of the very rare Red Colobus monkeys cross the road in front of our vehicle. Magic!

A friend from London was going to South Africa and wanted information. I emailed Karin in SA and her response was full of good advice and a postscript; ‘By the way, do not come to visit me in July as we will be on holiday in Zanzibar’ (small world). We met up in Stone Town and later Judi and I spent 4 nights in a delightful spot on the East Coast near the house which Karin, family and friends had rented and where we could eat and snorkel together.

I befriended a girl in Uganda who had wanted to climb the volcano I had told her about. Totally by chance, we met up here when she was studying Swahili (small world)

When I was in Kampala, I met the other teachers who lived in the compound where Ben stayed. We often had meals together and the boys were drinking companions. I was dashing to a beach to catch the sunset one evening when I heard “Hilda”! Looking back, the two attractive males out of context baffled me a bit. But we were soon swapping news. They are Ben’s co-teachers who were in Z. for a few days (small world).
During ZIFF, I befriended a long-term African resident who has retired to Nairobi with her similarly academic husband. They really do understand Africa, have known Cynthia for years (small world) and can relax with the pace of life. One of Annetta’s hobbies is to collect African sayings. She has a collection of 60,000! I find this quite staggering, but then I remember a conversation I once could not but listen to. It was in Uganda and three very well-dressed Ugandans were talking in English next to my table. This is a very common occurrence in Uganda where English has been the main language of schooling since Independence. However, the Govt. has decided to go back to local languages in Primary Schools because they are being lost by today’s children. This animated conversation between friends was memorable because every sentence was punctuated with a saying or two to emphasize whatever they were trying to convey. And as a non-speaker, this is how I imagine all conversations, whether in English or the local language, are conducted in Africa. What a lovely way to say something! To confirm my theory, the BBC World Service for Africa starts its daily programme with a saying from an African country sent in by listeners.

Talking of slogans: Kangas, those gaily-patterned cotton squares worn around the waist with very often a matching one draped across the shoulders or around the head, all have a Kiswahili slogan printed on them. Any Kiswahili-speaking person next to me is inevitably prodded to ask a woman wearing one to twirl around so that it can be read and then translated for me. The sayings are endless and very varied. Mine, given to me by Beatrice with whom I stayed in Arusha, says
The beautiful ones will not survive. Learn to say no… (this is an anti-Aids Kanga) others, too numerous to list, say for example
The condition of the world needs toleration…
We are neighbours; we do not disturb each other…
Human beings are incomplete
God! Give me patience
Although you are self-sufficient, you can rely on your parents
Where can I plant a banana tree and get rid of bush-babies? (They live in all b. groves)
Today is a happy day…
Despite having nothing, I do not despair
Thank you very much…
In the Zanzibar museum, there is a Christmas Kanga with fir trees and Father Xmas…

Judi is from Australia. We met in London over 4 years ago and had planned to meet in Malawi for a two-day boat ride on the lake. She was to continue northwards and I was to continue southwards. As time became more flexible, we decided to meet in Zanzibar and she too was instantly under its spell. After nearly three weeks (instead of two days), she dragged herself off to Arusha by ‘plane to save on the time lost. On the Lake Malawi boat she had met a South Africa who was slowly moving to Zanzibar where he was to celebrate his 60th birthday with friends who were flying in from all over the world. Chris had given her the date of the party, but as Judi thought she would have left Z. long before that, she did not make arrangements. We bumped into Chris on his birthday… (small world). That night the party presented an amazing meal of local foods!

I had saved the touristy things to be done with Judi, so we
· got a boat to nearby Prison Island for snorkeling and to see the largest tortoises outside the Galapagos Islands
· joined a Spice Tour which is excellent value and extremely informative. I went again another day to remember all the things we were told about and tasted
· hired bicycles to ride to ruins and a beach south of town
· stayed in two bungalows for 4 nights on the east coast where we could walk for miles on snow-white coral sand, go on boat rides to snorkel amongst the fabulous coral/fishes and swim amongst the dolphins
· walked endlessly amongst the shops and markets
· often ate supper on the beachfront at Forodhani Gardens where it is prepared for you over charcoal fires
· had numerous meals and coffees in many cafes/restaurants all over town
· visited the interesting museums housed in Arab Palaces
· just sat on the beach and watched the sun set over the sea
· had a beer/coffee at Mercury’s Bar over the beach and watched football being played on the ever-widening pitch as the sea retreated at low tide and the sun set
· constantly bumped into and had meals/drinks with friends and their friends
· read and swapped books
· sat in the open arena of the Old Fort (originally Portuguese) where there are the usual TTs as well as a restaurant to indulge in while watching life pass by or one can listen to the loud music performers from all over Africa on the stage where the main Film Festival films were shown at night
· finally, one cannot forget the breakfasts at our hotel where endless hot drinks, fruit and bread were complimented by eat-as-much-as-you-can pancakes! And conversation with fellow-travelers and ex-Volunteers went on into the day and resumed into the night on the balcony.

That is a list of the activities in Zanzibar which I can remember. Otherwise, time just passed magically and days easily merged.

Freddie Mercury seems to be the only famous person to have been born in Zanzibar although there is much to see and hear about people like the Omani Sultans and Colonialists and of course those intrepid 19th century missionaries or explorers like Livingstone and Stanley. If a café, restaurant or house can be named after a famous person associated with the island, it is.

Some of my impressions on Zanzibar:

Endless shops and displays of Maasai stuff being sold by these ‘invaders’ who originally lived thousands of kilometers away and have nothing to do with the sea.
The wonderfully varied supply of fresh fruits available. There are apparently 30 varieties of banana (I even bought pink ones) on the Island and they even imported some until recently. A disease called ‘banana wilt’ has spread and must be contained. Apart from this sexual image…. I think many visitors from Europe are not aware of more than the usual large Geest or Fyffe’s types which travel so well.
T-shirts being sold with MZUNGU on the front. This subtle joke reminds me of the slogan on T-shirts being sold in London: My mother went to London and all she brought me is this lousy T-shirt.
Being told to “SIT!” by a female guard when I innocently ‘strayed’ near the gates of an official–looking building (I assumed that the large canons facing me were rather too old to fire) and asked what the building was. She could not say more in English and no matter how much I tried to explain that I was only a silly old mzungu on a bicycle and “can I go now?” her only answer was “SIT!” Whilst she furiously tapped into her mobile ‘phone, I finally resigned myself to start re-reading a book I had not touched for many years. Mr. Darcy had just entered the district to Mrs. Bennett’s delight, when my friendly guard finally told me “GO!”. Perhaps she had not had the sheltered background of the Bennett girls. They say that brutalization easily happens and I can well understand why the total confusion of having this white-skin suddenly appear on a bicycle in a remote area would have made her very suspicious.
At another vast official-looking mansion along the coast, I was courteously told by the guard that it had been build for the President when the Island was independent. Now only the Tanzanian President’s mother lives there. And many of her hanger-on, I assumed. I cannot imagine anybody in Africa living in such isolated splendour. Generally one is fortunate to be able to sleep in a girls-only or boys-only room, which also of course implies one bed or floor to share.
Seeing four little girls happily playing in stretchy track-suit bottoms. Children all over Africa really do do the same things like children from all over the world... although the football might not be made from many plastic bags and string. These girls had stuffed a lot of old clothes into the ‘bottom’ parts of the tracksuits and they looked grotesquely like those stick-figures with elaborately emphasized bottoms one sees in tourist pictures. They were prancing about and imitating the bottoms they would no doubt have within 20 years. And boy, do those mature women use them effectively in dances!!! In my hotel I recently had a sudden view of my naked body (not something I ever willingly do) and realized that I had lost my bottom! Being in a country of wonderfully sensuous and ample female bottoms, it looks decidedly scrawny and must give rise to comment by the local lads.
The sadly neglected outside of buildings. Once they are built and painted white, not many are kept in good condition and the walls are very soon a dull grey mould which emits an atmosphere of neglect. Nowhere is this more apparent than on the outside walls of the rows of ten six-story-high soulless blocks of apartments built beyond Creek Road by the East Germans during the Socialist era when the West was in competition with the East for a foothold in East Africa. The Cold War. The Americans built a school and the East Germans housed 150,000 people. But Africans are used to sweeping their outside compound and not to live up stairs in cramped rooms. This is not easily accepted. Soon an ingenious system of pulleys with baskets for the daily shopping was erected outside the windows (as seen in the Arab Stone Town), and, as the concept of an indoor kitchen is unknown to most, the walls were punched through to allow air to escape from the charcoal burners being used on the floor.
Being told by a retired ‘Doctor’ who is now running an Internet café that there are 130 hospitals/clinics on the Island and that he is part of a team of 4 who regularly and unexpectedly inspect them. If medics are seen to re-use disposable gloves or enter false information, the hospital or clinic can be closed down. But all too often a bribe is all that is needed to ensure continued dangerous practices. Later I was told by another resident here that my ‘Doctor’ was only a minor health official.
This love of the importance of titles is also reflected in my unsuccessful attempt to get fish to dissect. When the dhows arrive in the morning to sell their overnight catch in the unbelievably chaotic but functioning fish-market, the fish are already dead. I was explaining my ‘mission’ to a gentleman by the beach when he confidently promised to let me go on one of his boats so that I could obtain the fish whilst alive. These promises went on during all the time I was in Stone Town and he was constantly full of excuses but also new promises. He sought me out and would then disappear. I was finally given the reason by someone else: no mzungus are allowed on dhows. Fair enough; but he had had his ego’s worth from me. Despite my initial protestations that he has misunderstood my explanation, he constantly addressed me and introduced me to people as Professor.
Exploring evocative ruins of the buildings erected by UMCA (the Universities Mission to Central Africa) for the education and training of freed slaves. The little church is still actively used and the grandson of a freed slave can take one about and show the graves of ex-slaves as well as of those dedicated men and women who succumbed to their harsh lives in Africa. Around the ruins are trees and palms which would gladden the heart of any tree-lover. Faded/broken/misplaced/misnamed/missing tags and storyboards describe (or not) the name and origin of the plants. I have never seen such a profusion of different types of palm trees/cycads and was very happy to be introduced to the tree that produces ylang-ylang perfume. That is supposed to be my personal scent and who am I to argue with the experts?
At many of the ruins or restored buildings I visited on the island, one is aware of the limitations placed on the architect; whether for a modest classroom or for Sultanate baths for the Harem… This restriction is the height of the mangrove tree. The poles from these trees are ideal building aids because they do not encourage termites and can thus last ‘forever’. But the width of the room is determined by the length of the ceiling-pole: about 3 meters. Although one constantly reads and hears about the transfer to Arab countries of ivory, spices and slaves, the export of mangrove poles for buildings in the desert was a very large element of trade in these parts.
On the way to the airport are large Ambassadorial mansions dotted amongst the homes of the rich. They were necessary once upon a time when the Archipelago was independent. Today there is still a longing in the population for this ‘lost’ freedom. One has to have a passport stamped to enter, even from Dar. Maybe the Opposition to integration with Tanzania will one day require those buildings to be properly occupied again. Locals resent having to pay for the maintenance of the mainland because they make so much from tourism and they recon that a large percentage of their taxes are never re-invested in the islands. True, they get electricity from the mainland, but they pay for it in any case and argue that they can produce it themselves if necessary. Fiscal and military elements will have to be sorted out, but the enthusiastic opposition says ‘Hakuna Matata’ whilst the conservative doubters say, ‘It is impossible’. I say it depends on what the International Community wants to achieve.
If you are very thirsty in Tanzania and long for an ice-cold coca cola, forget about asking for it! They look at you blankly. But say that you want a ‘soda’ and a coke will miraculously appear!
Very early in the morning the fish market in Stone Town is bustling with the usual totally confusing but ultimately efficient distribution of the day’s catch. Hundreds of large oblong fish wicker baskets are fixed to bicycles and held upright with a forked stick when being loaded. Soon the owners pedal off to resell their wares.
The endless discussions at the breakfast table with interesting people were a great delight. I had a chance to soften my attitude about NGO workers as they are so serious about their missions that one cannot say “Do you really think your time here would have made a difference in the long run?” Only those students who felt they had been exploited by the companies ‘back home’ were emphatically saying ‘NO!’ On the other hand, I admire the young students who are doing real research to help with eradicating malaria, or other diseases or testing drugs safely. Sadly, on the island of Pemba, every house is currently sprayed twice a year and the prevalence of malaria has diminished. This is being funded by an International Drug Company which will be pulling out after a few more years. What then? The Government will not be able to continue funding the spraying, the young children would not have been exposed to mosquito bites and thus not built up immunities and the mosquitoes will very soon multiply… Other self-satisfied “I had such FUN!!” remarks were not followed by me saying,”but do you not think that your three weeks of fun actually disturbed the pace of life and/or expectations of these kids?” or some such sarcastic remark. I just marveled at for example the need for Gender Issues to cost so much hard-saved money. Just for the record, there were no permanent aid workers or UN employees in our modest Hotel. Their salaries are far too good and they are used to living in protected compounds or luxury hotels. Every idealistic NGO worker wants to work for the UN (the ‘salaries are so good’ they say) and I dig deeper into my prejudices. Ingrid just says “You are opinionated, mum”.
Early one morning we were disturbed in the Hotel by loud arguing. I never got to the bottom of it, but it seems that an Inspector from the Tax Office had arrived and was demanding to knock on all our doors to see how many people were sleeping in them. The staff refused and she became aggressive and finally demanded a fine of US$ 5000. As we (10-20 guests) paid about 15-20 $ each per night, it would have been a sizeable ‘tax’. They went to the office and all was sweetness and light that evening. “We did not pay” was the answer to my question.
I make no excuses for my prejudiced revulsion when looking at the tourists on the beaches of Nungwe and Kenwa (and this can also be seen at other beaches), walking amongst the mainly Muslim fishermen and boat builders in the skimpiest of ‘swimwear’. These often bloated white skins seem to have an utter contempt for local feelings. I could not but laugh when watching men with tight bathing costumes wearing a flapping bum-bag over their crotches! Or the rotund man entering the sea with a thick cigar clenched between his teeth.
Wondering what on earth the Guest House owners do with all the money they receive when normal life is so cheap for them. They always say that you are being offered the last room and that is why it is so expensive. But a few minutes later one can hear the same mantra being told to the next potential guest.
Watching the workers on the coral shelf above the beach where they are building yet another resort (all water to be pumped from a nearby borehole which serves the village and where tourist beds have multiplied from 90, 10 years ago, to 4000+ today) steal petrol from the large digger in front of the totally unaware tourists. They drained it out of the machine into plastic cans and then hastily ran off with the spoils.
When a local mzungu couple who arrange fishing trips decided to ‘clean-up’ their village with the help of children, ministerial speeches and newly placed trash-cans, they were soon disillusioned. Streets were instantly dirty again, the trash-cans were removed (“they got dirty”) and the couple were told to go back to their own country if they did not accept the dirt and pollution.
On the beach area in Stone Town where most Tourists pass, is the newly painted Tourist Information Office. I entered and the staff of three gave the usual friendly ‘Jambo’ greeting. I looked around and then asked, “How long have you been here in this office?”
9 o’clock.
“No, I mean when did this office open here?”
9 o’clock
“No, I want to know how many years this office has been here.”
9 o’clock
After trying further variations on this theme, I gave up and left. English can be a very complicated language! As most visitors speak English……and Zanzibar relies on tourism as its main income, it needs to enter the 21st Century.

To have a change, I went to PEMBA ISLAND for a few days. Here they have hardly heard of the 20th Century.

This island is just to the north of Zanzibar. It is about the same size, but geologically quite different: hilly with mostly mangrove shores (no good for swimming) and only small local villages with a few tarred roads and otherwise mainly covered in clove trees. The latter is what it is famous for (Zanzibar lost its trees in a hurricane in the 1970s and never tried to replant). Both islands with the hundreds of small ones dotted around them were part of the independent state of Zanzibar before being incorporated into Tanzania.

The overnight ferry was very comfortable, if one has a bed booked, as I did. Otherwise it was the usual unbelievably crowded boat with bodies and bundles everywhere.

The two islands are justifiably famed for their spices, although the only industry today is cloves and other spices are imported and sold to tourists in attractive packaging. Both islands have 'Spice Tours' in which one can see the various plants which are only there for the tourists. But so what? At least I can now describe how turmeric or cardamom is grown and how one gets the six different coloured peppers from one pod or how complicated it is to release a nutmeg from its protective cover....

My stay on the island was centered on a smallish town, Wete, to the north where there was a very comfortable guest house. I took various trips from there by local transport/driver-guide or rented a car:
I used a local young man in Wete with whom to walk about town in exchange for the chance to practice English and have some lessons. This I always find a very good way to stay safe, have a translator and find out things one misses as a lone tourist. The sad thing is that they are generally not always motivated to do anything on their own. Despite my pleading to just read anything in English aloud, it is never done. There is no understanding of what advertisements are about and the contents of one is as easily read as the index to a book, without grasping the difference between them. My young man could happily show me a Pemba Fox (large bats), but if we were in the middle of an English lesson and the call to prayer is heard, he would jump up without a thought and dash off to pray.
Guides in the small remaining natural forest, like so many African Guides trained by NGOs, are very Latin-name-friendly. Although they might not know the common name or properties of a tree or plant, their incredible language skills means that they have a remarkable ability to remember the most obscure Latin plant names.
At a lighthouse on the northernmost tip, the guide could only rabbit off a synopsis of its very interesting history. He could speak neither English nor French, but he had learnt ten-minute explanations off by heart. The French couple with me tried to hear it in French, but they said that they could not understand a word either. The guide could certainly not answer any questions in either language although he happily knew how to charge us for the ascent and then ask for a tip afterwards... I say this only because it reflects the unsophisticated nature of the island which was cut off from tourism for years because of fear of political opposition, where illiteracy is 90%+, where only rich tourists usually go to stay in the few self-contained luxury ‘Lodges’ reached by ‘plane or where English is never heard, so practice is impossible. This is a prejudiced view and there certainly were tourists about and one or two places to stay, although none, apart from my quiet guesthouse, had clients in Wete while I was there.
I looked in depth at the farming of rice which is common in all low-lying places. Men and women both do the hard work and the fields are well-made with walls and drainage outlets. It is being harvested at present and the women have small knives in their palms with which they individually cut off each head of rice. No scythes as in the Far East. One has to have great respect for these time-consuming activities.
Went on a Spice Tour, which was on a small farm where various varieties of spices have been grown for demonstration only. The farmer showed me around and that was it. This is in great contrast to the sophisticated day-long Spice Tours of Zanzibar where dozens of minivans ferry their visitors all over the place and one is not only shown interesting ruins (and a large cave by the sea where slaves were smuggled from after prohibition), but also fed handsomely with spiced foods, all kinds of fruit and fresh coconuts. These Tours also include swimming on an isolated beach. It is one of the main incomes for Zanzibar Tour Agents and the competition is fierce.
The Rubber Industry is Govt. owned and was being run by well-trained staff. I wondered if the isolation of this Island and lack of dependence on tourists has had anything to do with its efficiency. There is talk of getting new equipment which will take the backbreaking job of squeezing water out of sheets of rubber, away from the workers. I was assured they would get jobs collecting rubber from the weeping trees with sliced bark, instead. Flat pieces of raw rubber, the size of the average computer screen, are hung outside to dry like so many small nappies (diapers). They are finally dried in smoke-houses and then the browned pieces are collected into 100k bundles which are interestingly stuck together with the power of their own properties. A fellow-tourist asked the rubber processing boss what the wages for those people who collect fresh milky rubber from the trees, is. "3 US$ per day" was the reply. That sounds low, but reasonable for Africa, I thought. I asked, "What time do they start to work?" "6am", he replied. "And finish?" I persisted. "9 o'clock". “In the evening!!?” “No.” "You mean they work for 3 hours a day?" "Yes."
Well, I reason, this is not too bad, as it leaves them free for the rest of the day to work in their shambas (farms). I can just imagine a do-gooding Westerner pulling hair out at the thought of such a 'low' wage! But a bonus of 3$ a day and still having all the daylight available for farm-work cannot be sneezed at.
· The understanding (or lack of understanding) of rules of behaviour imposed by Western standards is also demonstrated by my visit to a spaghetti 'factory' in Wete. I was fascinated to find it beside the road. There is a large, ramshackle, dirty shed in which the pasta is being shaped. Electric machines are fed flat sheets of pasta which come out the other side in strands of spaghetti. A barefooted man sits at the pasta outlet, gathers the strands together and whips them off at a certain length to put them on a rickety, square, wooden frame for drying. Outside, in the dusty overgrown open area next to the shed, the pasta is placed to dry in the sun on old and ragged trays. Barefooted men walk back and forth with these drying trays past goats, passing cars and dusty playing children. I asked if I could enter the shed to see the machinery. 'Take off your shoes', was shouted at me. They remembered from distant 'Health and Safety' rules and factory hygiene regulations that dirty shoes were not allowed into the building. However, bare feet, no matter where they have been, are acceptable.
There are occasional Daladalas on the roads and one pays for the ride at the end of the trip. I was with a French couple and, although I held out my 1000/- note for my fare, it was refused. The conductor (utingo) demanded that the man pay for all of us. I desperately tried to show that I was independent of them and only solved the problem when I gave Patrick the money and he then passed it on to the conductor. Similar customs are ingrained in a community where lack of contact with the outside world is still very prevalent. After the Revolution when there was a possibility that Pemba would harbour dissidents and they would call for Zanzibari Independence, the island was totally banned to outsiders. So the literacy rate became non-existent and it is difficult to find English speakers today, six years after it was opened to tourists. Most of the people are Muslims and I loved looking at the stately women in their black garb with intricate beading always showing as it billowed or the young girls exposing their jeans below.
With no idea of what I was about, a man was expensively (10 US$) ‘employed’ to go out and catch me some fish for my research for two hours. He gathered a bucket and finally poled off into the sea after about ½ an hour. Back ½ an hour later with 4 small fishes, my protestations for more fish were to no avail. He had done his job and there is no way I could impose Western value-for-hours-worked onto him! That night I ate the most expensive fish ever caught on Pemba: Two mouthfuls. But the word was out and a man approached me with a bucket in which he had placed various pieces of coral, seaweed, a sea urchin and the most beautiful small, dark blue tropical fish. I was horrified and told him that I did not want to buy it at any cost and that he must return it to the sea. He was very cross. Obviously, mad mzungus would love to carry a bucket with a fish in it onto a ‘plane.
Something which made me want to cry, was visiting the fish markets. There, amongst the abundant catches of 'ordinary' fish, were endless samples of the most beautiful and varied tropical sea animals. The colours shapes and sizes are what makes snorkeling/scuba diving so very rewarding. Yet here the life of the coral, so endangered by over-fishing and warming seas, is being denuded for the sake of a small, tasteless bite of a beautiful animal. And in tourist areas, the harvesting of shells so fondly bought as souvenirs has caused these sea urchin-eating snails to disappear with the result that the very large black-spiked urchins are now infesting all the coral and making life dangerous for viewing as well as denuding the coral of life. Thank goodness there are a few Marine Parks, but even these have to be constantly monitored against dynamite wielding poachers who willfully destroy the coral for a few fish. This sadness about the fishing of tropical fish off the coast was exaggerated when I went to a village on the north-east coast where the boats came in after a night’s fishing. The most beautiful fish, eels, sharks, rays, octopus and crustaceous animals were being offloaded. While sailing back to the village, the fishermen had strung the catch into different types/sizes/quantities. Small boys would dash to an approaching boat, gather one of these bundles and drag this catch through the water and deposit it on the sand of the beach where an Auctioneer would start the bidding. In no time a group of buyers would gather and the swift calling of prices reminded me so much of the cattle and sheep market we always go to in Yorkshire. It is also reminiscent of the total confusion for a stranger of
any open financial commodities market in the City of London. But no paper is involved. The large group soon moves off and one can remember the action which has been playing off in front of one. The buyer brings out the money and gives it to the auctioneer; no doubt the auctioneer takes a cut; the fisherman is paid; the little boy is paid; the boy who cleans/scales/guts the fish is paid; the boy taking it to the basket is paid; the new owner mounts his bike with the oblong basket on the back and cycles off. And I am left heartbroken to see such wonderfully coloured and shaped fish treated like so many bites to eat. How dare I be so sentimental!!! Of course the locals who need to eat do not realize that their ever-increasingly difficult need to live is killing off the things which might bring big fat mzungus with lots of dollars to their shores.
Cloves are the main economic product on Pemba. Most of the island is covered in tall evergreen trees where the clusters of buds on the ends of branches are picked in December. Apparently the tree is pulled together into a ‘sausage’ with a rope and people can then mount ladders for the picking. I was told that there are very many nasty accidents every year. There is no insurance either. Many of the trees are privately owned, but the Government insists that all the crops have to be sold to it. This pays about a third of the market value and one is not surprised to hear of smuggling to nearby Mombasa in Kenya. We had to pass many road-blocks in the north for the obvious reasons. Punishment with automatic imprisonment is very severe if a smuggler is caught.
However, I did visit a Clove Oil Distillery which seems to be totally independent and sports the most expensive and sophisticated technology I have ever seen (courtesy of a Dutch company). Here one can see how either the buds or stalks (less oil) are steamed to extract the distilled oil. They also make eucalyptus leaf oil from the small forests of these imported Australian trees. Most of the oil is exported all over the world. Remember, when you have a toothache or muscle sprain, to use clove oil!
Tourism is so new that there is a real problem with perception. Some very exclusive Tourist Lodges have been built near some of the few acceptable beaches, but the prices are steep (the cheapest I saw was 200 US$ per person for a double room not facing the sea) and the isolated and misunderstood impression the locals get of mzungus is very skewed. I always make a point of trying to tell locals that we actually have beggars and poor people in our countries. The power of film/TV is too strong though and they look at me in amazement and disbelief. They also find it difficult to understand that most holiday-makers have actually been working 9-5 for the rest of the year in order to afford such a holiday.
I left Pemba after a local lunch for 300/- and paid my mzungu price for the fast ferry back: 43,750/- (the locals paid 17,500/- for the same facilities). This difference in price I do not object to and it is standard in most countries where the locals have a smaller entrance fee to museums etc. Ultimately, no matter how much we paid, we were all given the same plastic bags when we approached the rough open seas between the two islands.


How long the magic of the Zanzibari Archipelago would have kept me captive, is debatable. But I had to return to England for a few months and I had three weeks in which to see a bit more of Tanzania....