Mara arrived on time. I bumped my head seven times on the dalla dalla ride to the airport. The world is not built for those who are over five foot ten. We walked across the street from the airport and drank cold Kilimanjaros before catching a taxi back to the YMCA hostel and the Holiday Inn rooftop bar across the street for a few more.
We left Mara on the rooftop while Annette and I spent a longer hour than expected on the phone to Vegas with Jennifer Henderson, getting excited about strengthening the non-profit sector in New Orleans when we get home.
We woke Wednesday morning early. Enough time to visit the fish market before our ferry to Zanzibar. At 7 a.m., the Dar Es Salaam fish market is a hive of commercial activity. People gather around vendors as the spread piles of small fish. They call in response, bills and five gallon buckets in their hands. We keep walking.
A man leads us around as we marvel at fish the length of our legs. Tuna fish. Red Snapper. Parrot fish. Octopus. Squid. Prawns of all sizes. King fish. Grouper. The man poses each fish for our camera. He asks us if we want to buy some. We explain we have nowhere to cook it. He motions at some stands across the street and says they will cook it. So, we walk across the street to find woks four feet across cooking huge vats of fish over charcoal fires. One is red, a pile of red octopus, slightly larger than my fist steam on the table next to it. We discuss what the red liquid is in the pot and why it is red. Is it red oil? Is it a dye the octopus releases? Is it seasoning? Crawfish, crabs, lobster and shrimp all change color when they cook. But mostly they don't change the color of the water. Mara is intrigued by the octopus but opts out of octopus for breakfast. Perhaps another day.
So, we walk on. Past stacks of fruit. Tomatoes. Curries and spices. Red peppers being crushed. Jars of pepper sauce. Huge breadfruit that look like the offspring of a watermelon and a porcupine. Finally, we approach some women who are cooking. They direct us to a seat. We order fish soup with chapati. It is brothy but delicious. We scoop small pieces of fish onto torn pieces of chapati bread. The chapati brings out the flavor of the fish.
By 9 a.m., we are at the Kilimanjaro booking office buying tickets on the noon slow ferry to Zanzibar. Here in Tanzania, everything is named Kilimanjaro. The mountain. The water. The beer. The ferry. The tickets say VIP on them, which turns out to be a semi air-conditioned upstairs lounge on the ferry. It has comfy chairs and not enough air conditioning. In eight months of traveling, I have learned that most of the time windows that open are better than air conditioning. But we are happy to be on the ferry to Zanzibar. Just the name elicits images of Arabic castles, exotic spices and a distant tropical paradise. Any name that starts with a z has a head start when it comes to piquing my imagination. Zebras. Zimbabwe. Zygotes. Xylophones. Ok, maybe that one is cheating. But X has a similar allure. But X isn't as smooth as Z. And most of the places that start with x are in China, which we won't be visiting on this trip.
Zanzibar slowly approaches on our port side. The sands are white. The water torquoise. Stone Town looks colonial and old, filled with mystery. And there is a big tree on the shore. It is marked in the Lonely Planet map as “big tree” with a small dot, but I don't notice this until we have already walked by it going the wrong direction. The guidebook tells us to expect chaos from touts when the ferry lands. But it is far less than the bus station in Essaouira, or anywhere in Morocco for that matter. So, we present yellow cards to customs, get a stamp on our passport, and motor through the touts offering us accommodation and taxi rides. Unfortunately, in most of Africa, they all try to become our friends first. So, the conversation goes through “What is your name, where are you from, how long have you been here, and where are you staying,” before he gets around to what he is offering. It is tiring and repetitive. A good newspaper story can capture all these basics in the first paragraph. It takes these guys a page to get there. But, as the Lion King made famous, “hakuna matata... no worries.”
We find a street vendor with mishikaka (beef kabobs) that are miniscule, fries, plantains, samosa and chicken. We eat various combinations of these for a few bucks before wandering through the transport stand in search of a 324 bus that will take us to the Rasta backpackers resort called Mustapha's Place. When I sent Mara to the website, she was sold on the subject of the first sentence, which starts, “Mustapha and his friend Culture.” No predicate necessary.
The dalla dalla cost more than it should and took a ridiculously long time, but fortunately less time than expected. But it dropped us off at the wrong place. As we pulled our packs from the back, next to a huge fishtail sticking out of a cardboard box, the dalla dalla money taker insisted this driveway leads to Mustapha's. We walked it to find the Blue Lagoon. Absolutely beautiful clear water lapping at white sands. But not our place. A taxi tried to get us for $20 to drive us five kilometers so we walked back to the road to hitch.
Sure enough the red dalla dalla drives by in a matter of seconds. It stops. The three of us yell at him about dropping us off at the wrong place. He flashes a smile and a bit more laughter than seems appropriate. But he helps us put our bags in the back and tells us to get in. We have one passenger try to call the place, but the number doesn't work. After some discussion by nearly all of the passengers in Swahili, it is decided that he now knows where to drop us. Five kilometers up, we stop. He says this is the place. We should walk down that road there. He asks a man to escort us. I see the red shipping container-turned-corner store behind a thatched porch that was described to me in the directions. So, we let the dalla dalla go and follow the young man as he leads us briskly to Mustapha's.
We left Mara on the rooftop while Annette and I spent a longer hour than expected on the phone to Vegas with Jennifer Henderson, getting excited about strengthening the non-profit sector in New Orleans when we get home.
We woke Wednesday morning early. Enough time to visit the fish market before our ferry to Zanzibar. At 7 a.m., the Dar Es Salaam fish market is a hive of commercial activity. People gather around vendors as the spread piles of small fish. They call in response, bills and five gallon buckets in their hands. We keep walking.
A man leads us around as we marvel at fish the length of our legs. Tuna fish. Red Snapper. Parrot fish. Octopus. Squid. Prawns of all sizes. King fish. Grouper. The man poses each fish for our camera. He asks us if we want to buy some. We explain we have nowhere to cook it. He motions at some stands across the street and says they will cook it. So, we walk across the street to find woks four feet across cooking huge vats of fish over charcoal fires. One is red, a pile of red octopus, slightly larger than my fist steam on the table next to it. We discuss what the red liquid is in the pot and why it is red. Is it red oil? Is it a dye the octopus releases? Is it seasoning? Crawfish, crabs, lobster and shrimp all change color when they cook. But mostly they don't change the color of the water. Mara is intrigued by the octopus but opts out of octopus for breakfast. Perhaps another day.
So, we walk on. Past stacks of fruit. Tomatoes. Curries and spices. Red peppers being crushed. Jars of pepper sauce. Huge breadfruit that look like the offspring of a watermelon and a porcupine. Finally, we approach some women who are cooking. They direct us to a seat. We order fish soup with chapati. It is brothy but delicious. We scoop small pieces of fish onto torn pieces of chapati bread. The chapati brings out the flavor of the fish.
By 9 a.m., we are at the Kilimanjaro booking office buying tickets on the noon slow ferry to Zanzibar. Here in Tanzania, everything is named Kilimanjaro. The mountain. The water. The beer. The ferry. The tickets say VIP on them, which turns out to be a semi air-conditioned upstairs lounge on the ferry. It has comfy chairs and not enough air conditioning. In eight months of traveling, I have learned that most of the time windows that open are better than air conditioning. But we are happy to be on the ferry to Zanzibar. Just the name elicits images of Arabic castles, exotic spices and a distant tropical paradise. Any name that starts with a z has a head start when it comes to piquing my imagination. Zebras. Zimbabwe. Zygotes. Xylophones. Ok, maybe that one is cheating. But X has a similar allure. But X isn't as smooth as Z. And most of the places that start with x are in China, which we won't be visiting on this trip.
Zanzibar slowly approaches on our port side. The sands are white. The water torquoise. Stone Town looks colonial and old, filled with mystery. And there is a big tree on the shore. It is marked in the Lonely Planet map as “big tree” with a small dot, but I don't notice this until we have already walked by it going the wrong direction. The guidebook tells us to expect chaos from touts when the ferry lands. But it is far less than the bus station in Essaouira, or anywhere in Morocco for that matter. So, we present yellow cards to customs, get a stamp on our passport, and motor through the touts offering us accommodation and taxi rides. Unfortunately, in most of Africa, they all try to become our friends first. So, the conversation goes through “What is your name, where are you from, how long have you been here, and where are you staying,” before he gets around to what he is offering. It is tiring and repetitive. A good newspaper story can capture all these basics in the first paragraph. It takes these guys a page to get there. But, as the Lion King made famous, “hakuna matata... no worries.”
We find a street vendor with mishikaka (beef kabobs) that are miniscule, fries, plantains, samosa and chicken. We eat various combinations of these for a few bucks before wandering through the transport stand in search of a 324 bus that will take us to the Rasta backpackers resort called Mustapha's Place. When I sent Mara to the website, she was sold on the subject of the first sentence, which starts, “Mustapha and his friend Culture.” No predicate necessary.
The dalla dalla cost more than it should and took a ridiculously long time, but fortunately less time than expected. But it dropped us off at the wrong place. As we pulled our packs from the back, next to a huge fishtail sticking out of a cardboard box, the dalla dalla money taker insisted this driveway leads to Mustapha's. We walked it to find the Blue Lagoon. Absolutely beautiful clear water lapping at white sands. But not our place. A taxi tried to get us for $20 to drive us five kilometers so we walked back to the road to hitch.
Sure enough the red dalla dalla drives by in a matter of seconds. It stops. The three of us yell at him about dropping us off at the wrong place. He flashes a smile and a bit more laughter than seems appropriate. But he helps us put our bags in the back and tells us to get in. We have one passenger try to call the place, but the number doesn't work. After some discussion by nearly all of the passengers in Swahili, it is decided that he now knows where to drop us. Five kilometers up, we stop. He says this is the place. We should walk down that road there. He asks a man to escort us. I see the red shipping container-turned-corner store behind a thatched porch that was described to me in the directions. So, we let the dalla dalla go and follow the young man as he leads us briskly to Mustapha's.
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| Sunrise at Mustapha's |
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