It was the tail end of an very eventful honeymoon, in which the mantra “O.I.A.- Only in Africa” was used frequently. Before leaving Dar Es Salaam for a safari in northern Tanzania, we decided to plan a three-day trip to Zanzibar upon our return.
“You are looking to go to Zanzibar?” A voice asked from behind us. “I can help you, follow me”. Under any other circumstances, this skeptical New Yorker would have kept on walking, but Africa had gradually been chipping away at my jaded nature. Ushered into a small office a few blocks away, the mystery man (who we learned was called Amadu) asked all the basics of our intended trip, said he would put together an itinerary, and meet us for dinner that evening. Sure enough, he showed up with flight details, hotel recommendations and current prices, promising to book the whole thing while we were away in exchange for a small down payment.
We knew this was coming- this, the moment when we would make a decision to either a) trust this strange man, fork over $150US and pray that he would make our trip a reality or b) tell him where to put his deposit and leave. We looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and chose option “A”. Amadu wrote out a receipt, promised to call with confirmation, and bid us adieu ‘til we met at the airport to complete our transaction.
He called us in Arusha, read us confirmation numbers- yet nothing was assured until we took off. Back in Dar for 20min flight east, we called, waited…. No Amadu. Reality set in, along with a valuable lesson. We both knew that this could and would probably happen, but the hope that it wouldn’t outweighed the potential loss. Had he used those brilliant sales skills and research savvy towards more lawful pursuits, he could be extremely successful. Or, maybe he already is, and this is his side gig.
We will never know.
Necessity required us to make our own magic. Tickets in hand for the next flight out, fate tried to make amends for our “flighty” friend- the prop plane was relatively empty, so the pilot asked if I would like to ride shotgun. It is such that we departed for Zanzibar; gazing out the windscreen with a slightly bruised ego, at the bluest water I had ever seen.
Amadu was a convincing schemer due to the accuracy of his information; The flight times were correct, as were the names of car companies and hotels where we could go diving in the northern coastal Nungwi. We followed his directions to his recommended hotel, greeted at the driveway with another cold hard slap in the face- “Closed for Renovations”.
Our driver, feeling our pain as night descended, recommended the nearby Mnarani Beach Cottages, where we stayed for two days of diving and exploring the beautiful atoll. It was fully dark by the time we checked in, so what better option than to eat??
A full spectrum of dining options dotted the beachfront- sandy beachbums slugged Kilimanjaro beer over a barbecue 50 feet from aristocrats dining on white linens. It had been a long day of deception-Ngorogoro to Arusha to Dar Es Salaam to Stonetown to Nungwi in less than 24hours. Pass that Kili.
Nungwi Hotel’s Diving Center paired immaculate equipment with knowledgeable DiveMasters who ushered our group through Morays, Corals, and a rainbow of fish busy with their day’s work. The 15 minute return through a local village allowed a peek into the similar hustle of local life; small children pushing discarded bicycles tires with sticks, truly reinventing the wheel; a religious ceremony igniting the women to sign and dance jubilantly; men playing soccer, kicking more dust than ball. The streets were too small for cars- everyone permanently on foot. I loved it there.
Weaving our way through the dusty village maze that night, echos of “Muzungu” slipped through the surrounding huts’ cracked walls. Candlelight kissed half-hidden faces peering through windows, and spice-filled dinner smells followed close behind. Back at the beach, our dinner at Ubora Restaurant overlooked the ocean we had been under earlier, the oceans’ bounty appearing on our plates so fresh, I think I recognized some of my prey personally.
We spent the final day in Stone Town, a place rife with history, beauty, and tragedy. Historically serving as the hub of Eastern African slave trade, much of what makes it beautiful also serves as a reminder of its terrifying past. Spices and slaves were traded at markets steps from each other. The Africa House Hotel‘s Sunset Bar remains true to its namesake by serving beautiful sunset views and Blue Label, but was built with a slave trader’s wealth and sustained success prophesied by a witch doctor.
The rooftop Silk Route Restaurant served up truly flavorful Indian dishes looking over the street. As we teared up over fiery curries, music floated from beneath, and locals appeared in windows, shouting and singing with the bands below. It was the final night of the International Film Festival, and the festivities would be capped off with the largest concert of the year in the Arab Fort. Stuffed and curious, we followed the music to the fort, but Oh! Vendors set up outside the entrance barbecued larger than life lobsters, how to resist? Armed with the smallest one on offer (still bigger than any I had previously seen on a plate), we ate second dinner with our fingers, unable to finish his giant tail.
Musicians and visitors from around the world met and mingled, dancing on the grass to foreign and familiar beats. We made friends with people who had no idea what we were saying, but must have liked our moves. This Fort, previously a prison and a defense from invading Portugese, was now a place of solidarity. This trip was similarly born of bad intentions, but pushed through to be brilliantly beautiful.
The final excursion before flying out was to a local spice plantation, which we decided to do independently by hiring a driver. Pulling onto the road leading towards the plantation, 20 men leaped from their lounging to vie for the guide gig. Our driver interpreted and vetted the lot, finally signalling his approval by opening the passenger door to one of the men, who flung himself into the seat as the driver sped away. Hence, we had a guide.
He was extremely knowledgeable, and knew how to hustle. We left that plantation not only plied with a new understanding of where our commonly used spices came from, but also with jewelry, crowns, hats, ties, and makeup plucked from the very plants we stood in front of. I have never been so happy to tip. We boarded the plane back to Dar Es Salaam wearing all our newly acquired palm apparel, accessorized with lessons learned and appreciation of blind faith.
