We hated Zanzibar.

I’ve thought a lot about how I wanted to construct this blog post and build up to that revelation, but I just don’t want to bury the lede. We didn’t enjoy our time there, and we would not go back, and it’s the only place on our trip so far that we would definitively say we would not go back.

So let’s get to Zanzibar, and talk about why we disliked it so much.

Getting In

We had easy, comfortable flights on Ethiopian Air that went straight to Zanzibar City, so we wouldn’t have to deal with the ferries out of Dar Es Salaam. Getting our visas was easy, they basically just wanted their money and there were no other questions. One thing that was interesting was we had to show our yellow cards, proving our vaccination against yellow fever, to get in. For our flight to Addis Ababa, also, the airline worker had wanted to see them, though no one at immigration in Ethiopia did. All of a sudden, after never touching them all trip, everyone wants our yellow cards!

Our hotel had set up a taxi to meet us, so we found him outside and started the nearly one hour drive to the beach village of Nungwi, where we’d spend the next five nights.

The drive largely resembles the drive through Zambia. The notable difference is the presence of Islam. According to the internet, 99% of Zanzibarians are Muslim, and you can see that fact in dress everywhere. We, too, were also prepared to be more modest for this portion of our trip, to be respectful.

We got to our hotel and were greeted by the owners, who were incredibly friendly, welcoming, and generous. Once we were settled in our room, one of them walked with us down to the beach, in order to show us the best way to get there, and point out a few restaurants.

This walk takes you through a number of modern resorts, full of Europeans. Specifically, Italians. Italians everywhere! We had no idea. We’d expected Nungwi to be a little more remote, hopefully similar to our Florianopolis trip in Brazil–quiet, low-key, local. But no, it’s been overrun by Europeans.

This has, apparently, been the case for so long that some of the local vendors and touts speak Italian. On numerous occasions, we heard local salesmen dealing in Italian as they tried to sell their goods and services. It was shocking.

Alright. *cracks knuckles* Speaking of the vendors and touts… let’s get into this.

Constant, Relentless Harassment

On our first walk down to the beach by ourselves–that is, without the hotel owner with us–we started to gather the attention of the vendors. We were new, so while the kinds of things they would sell aren’t typically our thing, we checked it out, just to know what those things were. Trinkets, of course, are a given. Plenty of boat trips–snorkel trips to the other side of the island, sunset cruises. I’m always amazed at how often, when you get to a place, people are trying to sell you trips somewhere else. But I want to be here, that’s why I came here. I imagine if you took the snorkel trip, you’d get to that other side of the island, and have vendors there bugging you to buy snorkel trips to your side of the island.

You can’t walk by yourself on the beach for more than a few meters before one of these vendors finds you and engages you. As soon as you get to the stairs from the resort area that lead down to the sand, they spot you and start their approach.

Africans–at least southern Africans–have a charming, quirky way of greeting, that’s not at all unique to Zanzibar, but was definitely on full display there. A typical greeting goes something like:

“Hello, hi, how are you?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Good, are you fine?”

“Yes, I’m fine, thanks.”

“Good, good. How did you sleep, did you sleep well?”

“Yes, I slept very well, thank you.”

And so on. This sort of back-and-forth can go a bit, and it’s typically very friendly and genuine. Our hotel owners, for instance, would greet us this way, every morning.

The vendors would also start off this way, and the charm of it quickly gives way to irritation when it’s just a lengthy preamble to “I have these trinkets and they’re beautiful aren’t they?” It consumes an inordinate amount of time, and you know all it is going to do is lead to the moment when you’re finally able to say “no, no thanks, yes they are beautiful, very beautiful, but no we’re not interested, thanks.”

And then it’s on to the next vendor. And the next. And the next. Each with the same lengthy preamble, each with the same trinkets or boat trips, each refusing to take no for an answer. As you’re walking the beach: vendor after vendor walks with you. While you’re laying in the sand talking to your wife or enjoying the scenery: vendor after vendor comes up and harasses you, some going so far as to sit with you to continue their pitches. Pretending to be asleep seemed to be the only sure way to fend them off.

Eventually, you grow tired of sinking so much time into these friendly greetings, just to have a pushy salesman on the other side of it, when all you want to do is relax with your spouse. So you look for shortcuts.

“Hi my friend, hakuna matata, where are you from?” one would-be vendor threw my way as he crouched down to where we were lying in the sand.

“Hi, I’m sorry, we’re just not interested, thanks,” I replied kindly, but then returned my gaze to the ocean.

“What do you mean you’re not interested?” he asked, huffily.

“We’re just not looking to buy anything, that’s all, we’re just trying to relax, thanks.”

“Who said I’m selling anything?!” he asked, painting his voice with anger. “I’m just trying to be your friend, I’m not selling anything. We’re friendly, here.”

Cute. Erika replied how all day long everybody is selling something, and we’re just trying to relax and not waste his time.

Then he called me a racist. “It’s cause I’m black, isn’t it?” He continued to angrily respond to my supposed slight of assuming he was selling something, and of not wanting to make friends at this very moment. Meanwhile I just ignored him, until he grew bored and finally moved away.

I probably don’t have to tell you we spotted him trying to sell things to someone else just minutes later.

One time, after we were well and truly tired of this, we were leaving the beach when some vendor was calling, trying to get Erika’s attention. She just ignored it, and we kept walking.

“I don’t like you,” he said to her, angrily.

Yeah, we don’t like you either.

We saw other foreigners’ interactions with the vendors turn testy as well. In one, a couple had had enough of one vendor’s persistence.

“Why won’t you just leave us alone? Why won’t you go away?” they asked with the timbre of irritation in their voice.

“I live here, why don’t you go away?” the vendor replied angrily.

Which, in a way, is fair enough. Maybe they just don’t like tourists coming there, and would rather they didn’t, which is certainly their right. Don’t worry, we won’t come back.

Between our hotel and the beach area, you had to pass through a large open dirt area, where taxis would park in attempts to ferry people to and from the beach. And every time we walked to and from the beach, we had to play out the same rehearsed script.

“Taxi?” you hear called out from the group.

“No thanks,” you reply, shaking your head and putting on a fake smile.

“Maybe later?” is sent up from the group.

“No thanks.”

“Tomorrow? Airport? Stonetown?”

“No thanks.”

“Later this week then?”

EVERY TIME.

And so on. This sort of thing was endless, anytime we left the safety of the hotel. Not everyone was as nasty as the couple scenarios I described above, of course. Most were endlessly friendly. One guy who was trying to sell us some trinkets and clothing cheekily said, with a grin, “my friends call me Christian Dior.” We loved Christian. Another guy, who was always parked near the entrance to the beach, would always call out to us when he saw us coming. “Hey! Barack Obama people!” This came about from early in the week, when we talked to him and were more willing to have a conversation. When we said we were from the USA, he said “oh, Barack Obama! You like Obama?” and we told him very much so.

I should mention that we have no real issue with vendors in general. By all means, get out there and take advantage of all those foreign tourists! The somewhat nasty edge was a big thing we disliked here, but another was just that what was being sold was undesirable. We bought from the beach vendors in Brazil, for instance, everyday. Churros and sandwiches and caipirinhas and cangas, we bought them all. Giant fruit seeds or planks of wood with my name carved into it? Sorry, Zanzibar, I’m just not interested.

Other Than That, Mrs. Lincoln, How was the Play?

The beach at Nungwi is jaw droppingly gorgeous. Silky soft, white sands; bright, blue, warm waters. Swimming in the waters was a wonderful way to spend your time, as it put you out of range of the harassment too. For long stretches of the beach, you could walk out waist-deep in the waters, around little coves and such.

The food was… not good. None that we had, anyway.

Nungwi House, the hotel where we stayed, is great. We loved the people who worked there, and it was a comfortable place to stay, with great, fruit-filled breakfasts.

Erika got sick, so that didn’t help things. Early in our stay, she was slugged with a debilitating cold that sapped all her energy. This illness would stick with her and plague her for a few weeks.

Stonetown

After five nights there, we were only too happy to put Nungwi behind us. It wasn’t quite time for us to leave Zanzibar yet; we had three nights to spend in Stonetown first.

Stonetown is basically the old city in Zanzibar City. It’s filled with narrow alleys full of shops, cafes, vendors, and tourists. The vendors can be aggressive, but no where near as much so as in Nungwi.

We wonder if we’d have better opinions of Zanzibar if we’d done the Stonetown portion of our trip first. Stonetown is much more charming, and with better food. We most enjoyed the nighttime food market, which we went to multiple nights.

One of my favorite anecdotes from our time in Stonetown, that I think helps color the kind of place it is, was when we went walking through the spice markets. Spice, even more so than beaches, is what Zanzibar is known for. It’s cheap, and it’s everywhere. That’s another of the trips that every vendor, taxi driver, and citizen is happy to sell you: spice tours, taking you to visit various spice farms.

Another interesting thing that happens in Stonetown is wannabe tour guides glomming onto you and trying to give you impromptu tours. We saw this happen numerous times to tourists, with tourists sometimes taking them up on it. In truth, it probably could be a decent way to get a cheap tour, if you get lucky with the quality of your random guide.

We went to visit the spice market in Stonetown, and one of these guys glommed onto us. He started acting as though he were leading us, pointing us the way through the crowd. We ignored him, but we were walking that direction anyway, so unfortunately we were following him. As he was “leading” us, a flat-bed truck, fresh with the day’s catch, backed up next to us. We were walking by it, right as a guy, who was on the truck, tossed out a giant stingray, which splatted on the sidewalk and showered Erika with stingray bits.

Everything about this scene makes me laugh, and gives me one thing to smile about from our trip to Zanzibar.

Dress to Offend

I’d mentioned earlier that Zanzibar is very Muslim, and rather strict about it. For instance, there were signs in Nungwi town advising visitors to not wear their swim wear when in town.

Erika was very conscious of being respectful of their customs while we were there, always wearing a long dress, and light sweater to cover her shoulders when we were out. This was true when we were in Stonetown as well.

She may have been the only person who gave a shit, though, based on all the other foreigners we saw.

Maybe it was to save space in their checked luggage, but apparently all of Europe decided to leave their bras at home this summer. High-waisted booty shorts and belly shirts were all the rage. I feel sort of icky even pointing all this out, like I’m the modesty police, but come on! Right or wrong, it’s the custom and belief of the place you’re visiting, show the slightest respect!

An Afternoon of Mancala

Near our place was a cute cafe with good food and coffee, that we went to one afternoon. On the tables, they had mancala boards you could use. You remember mancala! The board and the stones and you pick up the stones and drop them one at a time and move around the board and all?

And you… if you land in a cell with stones, you pick them up and keep going, right? And… wait, if you land in an empty cell, but it’s adjacent to a full cell on the other row, don’t you do something? Okay, winning! Winning winning… how do you win? You get your stones off the board first? Do you have stones?

We didn’t really remember the details. So, we basically invented a new mancala-like game. We had a total blast playing game after game of SturmWhite Mancala.

However, there is a particular variant of mancala that is commonly played in Zanzibar called Bao, it turns out. And it’s incredibly complicated, I learned after reading about it online. The games have multiple phases and it has a high depth of strategy necessary to play.

So, not surprisingly, when a local came into the cafe and saw us playing with the board, he:

• Assumed we were playing Bao, and
• Was amazed at a couple foreigners playing it.

“You know how to play?!” he asked us with surprise and a big smile.

We laughed and demurred. “Well, we don’t really remember everything,” we said sheepishly.

“Let me see, show me!” he excitedly insisted.

One of us took a turn, he laughed, waved his hand and walked away.

Twenty Year Olds are the Worst

One more funny little story will wrap up our time in Zanzibar. We were at another cafe in Stonetown, which was slightly touristy but had very good sandwiches. And we were seated next to a couple of American twenty-somethings who were saving the world!

“So I wrote a paper about that, and…” one of them started, and nothing useful or important has ever finished that sentence.

Meanwhile, the jaded olds that we are, having spent every day together for six months and out of things to talk about, were having a deep, stimulating conversation about… Garfield.

“When you think about 1968, it was really a critical year because blah blah blah…” one said.

“…When I was a kid, I liked Garfield,” I said to Erika.

“I studied the effects of those sort of relations, and I wrote a couple essays, so I feel blah blah blah…”

“…I used to pretend that I was Garfield,” I elaborated.

This juxtaposition tickled me so much. These kids… their enthusiasm is adorable, and important even. At the same time, I just wanted to scream, “You’re twenty! You’re not solving anything!” I also imagined the day it wears off for them, and they’re as jaded as I am, and I smiled. I’m so mean.

Other different, equally annoying, kids plagued Africa everywhere we went. They were the church groups, the service groups, here to Save Africa! They were all young, impossibly blonde, boys and girls in matching shirts. “We’re going to save Zambia!” they probably chant, just before getting on the plane. “We’re going to save Tanzania!”

Whenever Erika and I see such groups, we always start singing the “I Am Africa” song from Book of Mormon, as it’s about just such people, and it always makes us laugh.

What’s Next?

Phase 2 of the trip was rapidly coming to an end, suddenly. We hated having Africa end on such a sour note for us. We’ll definitely go back to visit Tanzania sometime, but I think this was our last time in Zanzibar.

The next day, we had an early flight out of Zanzibar and Out of Africa (trademark… oh someone already got it?! Damn!), to the last stop of what we called Phase 2: Dubai! We hope you enjoyed this entry in the blog, and come back next time to read about our quick, busy stay in Dubai!