Zanzibar

The autonomous island of Zanzibar has a rich history, but it has not always been a proud history.

While people have lived on the island for tens of thousands of years, history only starts getting properly recorded once the protected and defensible port of Zanzibar’s capital - Stone Town - becomes a base for traders of humans, of ivory, of spices. The Portuguese Empire was the first European power to gain control of Zanzibar until it came under the influence and rule of the of Omani Arabs some 200 years later in 1698; then in 1890 Zanzibar became a British Protectorate until it gained independence in 1963 - the same year it joined with the former German colony of Tanganyika to establish the country of Tanzania. As a result this autonomous island is a mix of Bantu, Portuguese, Arab and East Indian people that give the island and its people the unique and vibrant culture that is Swahili.  

 

The trade route that is the Indian Ocean 

Last of the cars

One of the many dhows

Visiting the island of Zanzibar adds another link to the chain of our exploring the Swahili Coast - a coastline that runs from Somalia in the North, down through Kenya to Mozambique in the South. We can immediately see the similarities with Kenya's Malindi, Mombasa and Lamu - all forming parts of the East African ancient trade routes. 

We set up camp in the narrow, winding streets of Stone Town - so called as the ornate houses were built from local stone and coral by the Arab traders and the enslaved people during the 19^th century - the ancient capital of Zanzibar. Our balconied Beit, typical of many middle eastern courtyard houses, is 3 stories high with a communal centre for the many families who share the building. We happily forgo the many beach resorts opting instead for this charming communal living, enjoying the constant hum of the different families chatting and the delicious smells of the various dinner pots cooking. 

The diversity of the people is wonderful: the vibrant colours of the different dress, the ever-present scent of spices, the regular sound of the call-to-prayer, the clack-clack of the cashew nut sellers, the noise of the down-pouring of the rains, the ubiquitous shouts-out Jambo (hello) Pole Pole (slowly) and Hakuna Matata as we pass by the many African craft stalls. The streets, although dark after sunset, are completely safe and we roam about without a care. The architecture is amazing – every Beit having a unique teak-wooden door; the overhanging wooden balconies; the wooden-lattice-work window coverings; the squat minarets and temples to Jainism; the stone benches built into the outside walls made to welcome men and women (separately) to sit and converse - no wonder Stone Town is a world heritage site. 

 

Porters wait outside the ferry terminal for trade

The ferry terminal - a lifeline to the mainland

Cashew nuts anyone?

Faded but still glorious (the building not me!)

Smiles even as the heavens open.

Although the island is now clearly geared up for the tourist, both African and Western, it somehow still retains much of the mystique and exoticism of a bygone age. The locals still live cheek by jowl and nowadays that includes the tourist and their cafes and hotels (although there are very few chain hotels to be seen).

No two doors are the same

Some, Indian in style like this Gujurati one

Others Swahili or Arabic

Unlike Lamu, which has banned cars and motorised vehicles, this Swahili island has replaced the donkey with the trundle of man-pulled barrows and the peep-peep of mopeds, both ferrying goods and people through the narrow streets. The call-to-prayer rings out from the 45 minarets that punctuate the skyline, the soothing rhythm of the Adhan barely noticeable after a few days. The Muezzin recites the Adhan (meaning listen) 5 times a day, 4 of the Adhans are identical (a prayer along the lines of “hurry to prayer, hurry to salvation, God is great”). Except the early morning call has message that translates along the lines of “prayer is better than sleep” – after all, at 4 in the morning one would need some encouragement!

A wonderfully preserved local hospital "The Old Dispensary"

Looks like a museum...

...but it is a fully functioning hospital inclusive of a triage, an x-ray, consulting rooms...

...and a one-bed emergency room.

There are just two Christian-denominated cathedral churches among the mosques: one catholic and one High-Anglican. It is Sunday so we set out for the 7am service at the Catholic Cathedral, partly to see the interior - as the building is otherwise not open to the public - but also to watch and partake in the service. How different will it be to what we know, we wonder? The interior walls, arches and ceilings are brightly decorated; given that this is a Muslim town, there is a surprisingly large congregation and the service is familiar to the masses we attended in our childhood days. We leave feeling enriched.

The High-Anglican Cathedral service is not until 10 o’clock which gives us time to enjoy a breakfast and coffee in the "The Secret Garden" - an oasis set in the alfresco ruins of the Emerson Spice building - before taking our seats at the front of the imposing Church of England Cathedral. For us, the service is more Catholic than the earlier Catholic mass! I am instantly transported back to my seven-year-old self, an involuntary altar-boy partaking in a sung Latin mass only this time the unintelligible language is Swahili! Everything is familiar: the same bells and smells, the thurible, the boat of incense and the acolytes dripping hot wax on the altar-boys’ heads kneeling in front of them. The congregation sings to heaven-on-high: the Gloria, the Kyrie, the Ado Remus, the Tantum Ergo. Atavistically, all the prayers had the same rhythm, the same tune with just the Latin replaced by Swahili. Again we leave feeling enriched but...

...this welcoming cathedral hides something dreadfully sinister. Built atop the infamous East African slave market it is now emblematic of the much-needed change in the moral zeitgeist of mankind. It marks the stain on humanity – the sin of slavery.

Interior of St. Joseph's Catholic Cathedral.

Upside-down pillars in Christ Church Cathedral (the enslaved builders, missing the architect for a couple of days, positioned the pillars not knowing the difference between the top and bottom of a Doric pillar. Why would they?!).

When Livingston died his heart was buried in Africa (the rest of his body was taken to England) and this cross is made from the tree which grew where his heart lay.

Christ Church Cathedral

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The cramped holding pens for the slaves – isn’t it awful to talk in such terms? Evoking the times when certain people held little value and even less regard? - are still visible under the holy building called Christ Church. A local man, Sebastian, offers to take us through the history - for a small fee of course. He explains how upwards of 11 million slaves were traded into the East, dwarfing the West African slave trade of which we are more familiar; he recognises Britain’s essential role in ultimately ensuring the abolition of slavery in 1807 but reminds us that for some 200 years prior to 1873 (the year it was officially abolished in Zanzibar) Britain, too, partook in the trading of slaves. Sebastian explains from where the Eastern slaves came: how sometimes they were snatched from villages, how some were sold by their own tribes, how some were the spoils of inter-tribal war - we are told that the prized slaves came from the Congo on account of their strength - how they were marched, yoked and in chains, for some three months before they reached the trading ports, how they were subjugated to horrific and inhumane slave-holding conditions once they arrived in Stone Town, devised so that only the strong survived and therefore driving up prices for these human goods. Unlike the North American slave legacy, little remains of the traded enslaved people in present day Middle East and India on account of the men being castrated before being shipped to their new 'homes'.

After being completely numbed by our visit to the Slave Market we take time to reflect, to digest and most of all the remember and learn.

Somber reminder of a grim past.

One of the many holding pens that still survive...

...more than eighty souls would be held here!

Not visible to the public as it is a marble stone behind the altar, this is the site of the whipping post.

The rainy season ends in May, we are told, only it hasn’t and can it rain! There is a deafening sound of the monsoon rain on the tin roofs as we take refuge and drink flat white coffee and watch the alleyways turn into rivers. Eventually the rains pass, the sun comes out - along with all the locals who have also taken shelter - and life returns to normal. There is clearly no point in taking on the elements!

 

The old Omani fort

At night we devour some of the best coconut fish curry on the planet. Then we giggle our way back through the alleyways to our Beit, our navigation trashed by the jam jars of rum cocktails that we insist weren’t that strong!

No visit to Zanzibar would be complete without paying homage to the late, great Freddy Mercury who was born and spent his early childhood playing in these narrow streets. His family home is converted into a small museum which managed to capture both his enduring achievements and the tragedy of his short life. 

 

We are leaving Zanzibar, one day late as the flight we had scheduled simply got cancelled. Apparently, this happens frequently with Ethiopian Airlines - no reason given, no alternative offered! An unconvincing email says something along the lines of “don’t worry there’s another flight for you tomorrow”. Well, it is tomorrow and at check-in they have never heard of us, we are not on the flight manifest. By now we are used to the wheels coming off anything official and so we shrug: here we go again. We know to hold up the check-in queue so that a supervisor quickly arrives; one hour later and after lots of arm waving and multiple phone calls we finally make it through to air side and the immigration booth. We handover the paperwork that nobody reads and arrive at the 'sanctuary' of the departure lounge - I had been very tempted to write a nursery rhyme on the immigration form, just to see if anyone would notice, but thought better of it having been delayed so far - Nothing else could possibly go wrong. Oh wait, we are departing from gate six in a building that only has four gates; and so we shrug again: never mind, I’m sure it will work out. Our fight is displayed as going via Kilimanjaro and then on to Addis Ababa. However, it goes directly to Addis Ababa. Good news for us, not so good news for those who were hoping to find a big mountain at the end of their flight! Not our problem this time! Before we have time to finish our meal and coffee we see the mile-high lights of Addis Ababa out of the plane’s windows – we’re almost home with our eldest.