A concentration of riches, often one which is considered lost or forgotten until being rediscovered. That's what I'll call it, because Zanzibar was nothing short of a treasure to the eyes of a meandering solo traveler drained of all externalities. Merely an empty vessel walking ashore.
Word of advice. If you're traveling to Zanzibar. Cough up the hundred bucks and fly.
And to pick up exactly where I left you. Eight hours on a bus only to reach yet another circus-esque bus that would take me even further away from my sanity. As I watch the sunset- no scratch that. I was too squished to watch the sunset. Imagine a packed school bus: we've got adults left and right, the conductor/muslim preacher standing in the doorway, children spewed all over the spots of floor not taken up by feet, and me in the front corner seat watching a precariously stacked line of boxes in front of me. The mother next to me kept slapping the first kid on the floor, presumably hers, who dozed off. As if it were safe before- infants on the floor of an overpacked, overpriced, over the speed limit driving bus with passengers too vain to notice the tiny cherubs their feet could be smashing- if they were awake all would be fine but, if they fell asleep they'd be on a ride to their own doom. Hah- logic.
It's dark outside and a few stranglers awaited their luggage to be thrown off the roof of the bus. Here's where my thought process went too fast for me to digest. Mumbling thoughts of making it to Zanzibar aloud, I optimistically hoped a local would overhear and step in with directions. The man next to me, Shibar, chimed in. Turns out my journey had just begun.
From Pangani, my current location, one would have to catch a ride to the ferry; cross the river to an island; catch a ride to the other side of the island; find a dhow leaving for Zanzibar.
Simple enough. The friendly local man, Shibar, unto his own free will offered to escort me. " Now you can do one of two things: find a place to crash for the night and deal with it in the morning. Or, take this guys offer and finish what this long day started. He seems like a nice guy... well we'll find out," I thought to myself grabbing for the open part of my purse. May it be noted that I specifically asked, four times, " So are there boats leaving for Zanzibar this late at night?" I was reassured with his reply, " Oh yes, there are always boats there and they are always leaving."
Shibar calls up a friend for his motorcycle and we wait at a local pub until he arrives. An hour or so later we're finally on our way. Mind you this was a dirt bike species of motorcycle. And a driver to match. With what seemed like the worlds longest and fastest adventure, I clung to the strapped pieces of metal that constituted a mode of transportation. Tears dripped down my flapping cheeks. With nearly a 30 kg pack on my back and an overstuffed side purse I tried with all my might to stay on the brisk bike but, with each bump and rump in the dirt road I found it a terrifying notion to cling on to. "Pole, pole, (sorry, sorry)," Shibar would say as my rump jumped after each lump in the road, " You almost lost me there," I would assuredly reply. I have never prayed mother Mary more times in my head than on that bike. Each minute passed and I kept telling myself, " Five more minutes Heather, five more minutes of this and it'll all be over. You'll be on that boat and on your way to sun and fun." Five minutes turned into an hour and a half. We finally slow down and come to a stop. With nothing more on my mind that the thought of getting on that boat Shibar turns off the engine and says, "O.K we eat dinner now."
It's pitch black and all I can hear are the rumbling voices coming from the building we are approaching. With cane as straws everyone sat around pots of local brew chatting away. I sat in a candlelit room, clutching my soda in hand, as a mzee scowled curiously at me. An hour or so later we were on our way to, quite honestly, I had no idea where. He pointed to the bike. That wretched thing. I had to get back on that horrid, wretched thing- my hands already blistered and bruised from the first round.
45 minutes later we finally arrived. 1200 am. He walked up to a store like joint. Another beer I thought. He's stopping to have another beer. Little did I know, he actually was family with the owners of the store. As they opened the door I soon realized that it was also their house. We came inside, he put down my pack and leaned over to me, "O.K, this is where I leave you."
Remember when I asked if there were boats leaving at this hour? Well there weren't. There were boats but they didn't leave until 330 am.
So drained from the wear and tear of todays travels, I kept dozing off on a strangers couch as they watched a Swahili soap opera. After sleeping in a strangers bed for an hour or so I was awoken by the Captain of the boat. He said it would be best to sleep on the boat before it left for Zanzibar. So off I went following Captain and my pack in the dark. Boats aren't docked to actual docks in real third-world life. So with pack, sandals and purse in hand I vicariously lift my dress in hopes of staying somewhat dry on my walk out to the boat. Finally approach the boat- in complete darkness. Great. Now I only have to figure out how to climb onto this beast of a boat alone. After I muster up the muscles and courage, I realize my feet were standing on soft ground. People. I was stepping on people. This 60+ foot dhow was lined with hundreds, and hundreds of sleeping people. Tip-toeing in blindness I finally find a small patch of boat to sit on. Trying to be cordial to the only mzungu, I was pushed below the deck- there was no below deck just a hole in the boat to store water and rice sacks, to catch some shut eye. I later that morning came to realize it was also the hole where they drained the leaking water, excreted and vomited in. Cholera, great. With no exaggeration, I have never felt so close to experiencing what it felt like to be in the slaves quarters of a boat sailing to colonized land. The proximity to bodies. Sickness. Lack of sanitation. Darkness. No true grasp of where and when we would be going. 230 am and I'm in the middle of nowhere, on a boat with complete strangers, hoping and praying I'll wake up and we'll be there.
We didn't leave until 5-530 am. Awoken by a nudge and mumbling sounds, I was reckoned back onto the deck to find a new spot to sit. A light in the distance shined upon us. Moans filled the air around the boat. Four more boats-worth of people piled onto the already crammed vessel. Awoken by the salt air I realized I had dozen off and we already started the journey. Let me say, few moments in my life have moved more slowly than the following hours that laid ahead.
Daylight. Voices. My eyelids blink open and close. I catch a glimpse of the sea ahead and automatically get sick. For those of you who know my history: 36 hours awake, non-stop travel and no access to my medicine was not a good combination. But have no fear, vertigo was on my side. With bodies vomiting left and right, the ancient sail of our vessel flapping violently in the wind, and moving seascapes ahead of me- I decided it best to just close my eyes and ride out the storm. Drained of almost all possible energy, I couldn't stay in the same oddly cramped position. Lifting my head and opening my eyes I immediately feel sicker. Asking for a bag, Captain came equipped, I spewed the lunch and dinner I had not eaten into my plastic safe haven. Six times.
Mirages. A beautiful and deceiving thing they are. I saw several while out at sea. I had heard from locals that it takes 3-8 hours to sail to the island. With no energy to ask in Swahili how long it would be, I closed my eyes and prayed for it all to be over in 3. Several times I thought it was. Yet another vicious mirage stealing my last ounce of sanity. Finally land. Actual land. Vomit. Doze-off. Land. A millimeter larger in size. Getting closer. Vomit. Prayer. Doze-off. I watched that land for an hour and thirty-six minutes until it finally was reached. Never have I been happier to see land in my life. I can only imagine what Columbus felt in 1492. I stood corrected from the mother Mary prayers claim back on the bike.
It had taken 8 hours to reach shore. Apparently that day was 'poor wind'. Go figure.
I mustered up the last bit of energy to get to the hotel. Only to find myself passed out on the floor with a bump on the head. I had fainted and hit my head on the bed banister. Awesome. But one thing that made it all better, air conditioning. Nothing can be as simply satisfying as h/vac systems and mosquito nets.
A small town girl had a dream of reaching the ancient islands of Zanzibar by way of the glistening sails of a dhow. Nothing would get in her way. Not even her own sanity.
Doomsday dhow.
Sweet, sweet land.
All for now,
<3 --h--
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