Mamas and Papas

A view from the house of wonders veranda
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A Eugene friend Glenn Heiserman arrived this afternoon.  The plane was late and the Visa line long.  As a result we hit Dar rush hour and had a squirming driver whose patience had run out.

Earlier in the day Gavana and I went to the post office in order to ship my extraneous purchases dating back to Bali.  As we were putting the finishing touches of tape on the box a lady or as they say here mama at the counter informed us we needed to open the box and let customs take a look.  Gavana snatched up the contents and barging his way in the customs line thrust my stuff into the hands of the customs lady saying "Mama, I need you to see these things."  Unwrapping the first item she brandishes a wooden penis and balls bottle opener I bought at the Denpasar airport.  "What is this?"  She says, "This is a nasty thing and cannot be posted."  Poor Gavana who had no idea such a thing was in the box for once had no quick comeback.  The other customers at the counter including a British couple looked around to see who would bring such an item to the Tanzanian Postal Service.  I had to avert my face to hide a foolish grin.  Finally tiring of her tirade I grabbed up my possessions sans penis bottle opener and fled the building.  "I am taking this to DHL."  I declared.  Gavana, trying his best to be indispensible asked around but no one knew where the office was.  As I was giving up and turning around to head back to the hotel there was the familiar Yellow and Red sign.  In I go plop the packages in front of the officious lady at the desk.  The first thing she pulls out are the seashells I bought the day before at the fish market.  "What is this?'" she asks in a tone clearly predetermined to be offended. "Seashells." says Gavana (sometimes I am just a bystander in my own play) "You need a permit"  she begins chanting.  "You need a permit, you need a permit."  Once again I grab up my stuff and with as much saccharine as I can muster say "Thank you I will get a permit."

down one of the winding streets of StoneTown
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On the street I am giving off icy fumes.  There is only one thing to do at this point ...have a good strong cup of tea.  The morning that began so promising with a decent internet connection had turned into a series of futile gestures.

I had to give Gavana the brush-off.  He ws expecting me to pay his way joining on the rest of my trip in Tanzania and beyond.

The next morning Glen and I sped out the hotel door and to the domestic airport to catch the 7:30 flight to Zanzibar.  We got to the boarding gate in time to watch the 12 seaterCoastal Aviation prop taxi out to the runway.  By 10:30 we were in Zanzibar, a mere 20 minute flight.  We purchased tickets for the next day to Kilimanjaro airport and then paid an exhorbitant price for a taxi into Stonetown to the Victoria House where we got a room.  StoneTown is  a very intriguing place.  One of the centers of Swahili culture, it is compact with narrow winding streets that curve around 4 to 5 story white walled buildings some in complete ruins.  Between the gaps you get views of steeples and minarets.  Latticework balconies and Massive wooden doors with elaborate islamic carvings decorate the buildings.

inside the old Hamam
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Squeezing to the side of the narrow lane to let a bike with a jingling bell pass.  On the road women scarved and curvaceously swathed in patterns of impalas and palms in yellows and purples.  Ninja women with hennaed hands escort each other.  East Indian saris swirl past.  Some muslim sect of Indian women wearing what reminds me of the hideous flowered curtains my mother bought from J.C. Penny catalog in 1966.  There is a picture book to be made of the variety of costume worn on the streets of StoneTown.

Dinner off the grill at Forodthani market
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Now I have certainly had my share of touts and 'guides' during this journey but the Zanzibar version is the most persistent.  This guy comes up and almost in a mumble offers to show us the town which I refuse knowing it is so small.  Well he follows us.  Sits down at our table at lunch uninvited.  Keeps pestering me with phrases like "This is Africa and you should help me."  Finally we duck into  The House of Wonders or the last Sultan's palace and I still paid him off to leave us alone.  The Sultan Bargash was a great modernizing fellow who brought electricity and many improvements to his Sultanate in the late 1800's.  There is a movie to be made of the princess Salme whose life is chronicled here on storyboard.  Self taught she ran off with a German merchant, converted to Christianity, had three children and then began a series of maneuvers to have Germany  instead of Britain be the protector of the island.  She was rejected by her family, left poor by the death of her husband and thwarted by the Brits.

One of the many doors I took pictures of
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The veranda on the third floor gave out to wonderful views of the city and the waterfront including the Portuguese fort.  We aquired Alif as a guide.  A fast talking fellow with a talent for leading us through the maze of streets to just what we were looking for. He asked Glen if he was my papa.  Not the first or last time Glen who is 70 was referred as Papa which is a term of respect here.  He took us from the spice market to the old slave market which is now a catholic church. We viewed the old Hammam and many ornate doors.

Balconies overhanging the street
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This is also the town famous for the shortest war in history.  Khalid Bargash, a wouldbe Sultan declared the city his and withing 45 minutes the British had bombed his palace and the waterfront and chased him out.

StoneTown has a number of grand old homes which were converted in the revolution of 1964 into communal housing.  Consequently the homes have been in disrepair and now with a reforming government in power private property is allowed thus construction is happening all over town.

We ate at the Forodthani market where skewers of seafood are grilled for immediate consumption.  The end of the night found us chatting with a Danish/Brit couple on the terrace bar of the Africa House Hotel.  There I had a kilimanjaro beer, felt the cooling evening breeze waft in off the Indian Ocean and watched tourists coughing from inhaling a sheesha.