Spice Tour

September 10, 2005

Zanzibar was the oceanic portal through which an estimated two million slaves from East Africa moved on their way to the Middle East. Arab slave traders traveled inland and bought slaves from warring tribes, bringing them to the African coast, then to Zanzibar, where they would be sold at open markets and loaded onto ships. But Zanzibar is also called Spice Island, because after the slave trade was abolished, spices supported the economy. Monday morning, following a night of deep sleep, Michelle and I join a spice tour starting at 10:00am and scheduled to return to town at 4:00pm. While we are waiting in the spice tour office with the Muslim men who run the company, we meet Heidika Suzuki, a young man from Japan who’s in Zanzibar to research his dissertation. For eight weeks, Suzuki works every day, researching at the local library, pulling, photocopying and studying old slave trading documents. His weekends are spent going to beaches on other parts of the island. Today, he’s taking the spice tour.

Our spice tour group fills two white vans and we drive out of Stone Town, visiting small houses and large groves of various spices to see the plants up close. Ginger, cloves, nutmeg, coriander, cumin, vanilla, black pepper, cocoa, coffee, jackfruit. We learn about the uses of the spices and fruit and the part they played in Zanzibar’s history. Many of the roads we travel are unpaved. All along our routes, tables line the road and are heaped with small, colorful packets of spices. Everyone in our group is white, except for one young man who wears a Kenya t-shirt. He looks to be around 30 years old. I finally ask him if he’s from Kenya and he says, "Yes, and I’m proud of Kenya. That’s why I’m wearing this shirt!" I ask where he’s from and he says, "Kisumu."

"I live in Kisumu," I say to him.

"Oh, so you speak Luo," he asks and laughs.

"Hericamano," I say (which means "thank you") and we both laugh.

His name is Seba and he is from Kondele, an area of Kisumu near the provincial hospital. We talk about Kisumu because he now lives in Tanzania and hasn't been home in a year. Seba is accompanying an older German woman on the tour. She looks to be at least 65 years old and is very nice. It is apparent Seba is her date for this trip to Zanzibar. Over lunch, they tell us they have spent time in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania's capital city on the coast. She’ll soon go home to Germany, but will return again, to visit Seba. This is her second trip to Tanzania. Older European men and women spending time with young, attractive Africans happens quite a bit on the coast of Kenya and Tanzania. She seems a bit timid, but her shyness may be because her English is not so good. The two of them sometimes hold hands on the tour.

When we’ve visited a location where lemon grass grows, which is our last stop on the tour, our guide gives us the option of going to the beach or going back to town. For those going to the beach, we’ll stop at a slave-holding cave on the way. More people chose to go back to town than to the beach. We take a wide dirt road lined by tiny houses and pine and coconut trees. Along the way, trucks pass us and their large beds are filled with locals dressed in bright green and yellow t-shirts. The national election is coming up next month and campaigning is in full swing. The truckloads of young people, dressed in green and yellow and shouting slogans, are seen all over the island. As in Ethiopia and other African countries, elections are times of instability. While we’re in Zanzibar, it is the beginning of low season, simply because the upcoming elections make it risky for tourists to be on the island.

In addition to campaign trucks, we are surrounded by dalla dalla on the dirt road leading to the beach. At times, there are three lanes of cars, trucks and our van heading in the same direction. We raise quite a bit of dry, red earth as we race toward the coastline. I notice the clouds of tiny dust particles settling on people in their yards, leaving a mask of dirt on the banana trees and other vegetation. The dirt floats easily into their homes and coats their furnishings. They breathe it in most of their lives. I can’t help but recall a health news item that ran on BBC World last week, saying people who smoke only four or five cigarettes a day have a higher chance of heart disease than do those who smoke two or more packs a day. The study also found patients who breathed in particulates from their environment were also more likely to die of heart disease than those who smoked regularly.

Africa is dusty, mainly because very few roads are paved. Roads, both paved and unpaved, are traversed by vehicles operating free of emission testing. These vehicles are old and rattling and falling apart, spewing clouds of black exhaust. Even in Kisumu, most cars are older and most trucks are poorly maintained, which means they do not operate efficiently. On the contrary, every matatu, transfer truck and even most family cars would not pass a standard U.S. emissions test. Of course, it’s so expensive to own a vehicle in Africa resulting in fewer cars and trucks on their roads. Cars and trucks, not surprisingly, do not last long because most of the roads are not roads at all put dirt paths full of ruts, grooves and rocks that jolt a car to death over a short period. Even in town, many highly-traveled roads are unpaved.

Only major roads between cities and within cities are paved. Hit the outskirts of town and red dirt roads are everywhere. The amount of daily dust and exhaust assaulting Africans is a crime. But dust is a minor annoyance when compared with their daily quest to find water, make the water safe for consumption, and locate food for their children. It doesn’t occur to them that the dirt kicked up by wind and cars is detrimental to their health. They have more pressing matters to think about.

So we fly down the wood-lined road and I regret the amount of dirt sailing into the homes we pass. Our guide closes all the windows and turns on the air conditioner. Sometimes the dust kicked up by the flying dalla dalla is so thick, we can’t see the kids in the back of the truck that’s four feet away.

We race down this dirt road for nearly 30 minutes before we turn right. It’s not a road, really, but a dirt path with two tire tracks and a line of grass down the center. We pull up to a fence and park next to three other vans. This is the slave cave. The structure is not a natural cave but two rooms dug into the ground, perhaps 15 feet deep. These to chambers are topped by a shell/cement roof that protrudes from the ground about two feet. A single stairway in the center is the only entrance and exit. The stairs are deep and narrow with nothing to hold as we descend. It’s a little scary just climbing into the hole on a bright day. Hard to imagine the terror of being herded into the darkness in a rush.

A sheltered placard tells the story of this locale, how slaves were brought here in the dark of night when slavery became illegal. Men were crammed into one room and women into the other. They were not fed or cared for and many died in the sunken caves. This, the slavetraders believed, was a way to weed out the weak, leaving only the strongest for trading. The exposed shell roof is only about 200 feet from the Indian Ocean. We walk the path the slaves took, though we are free while they were shackled around their necks, wrists and ankles. The path leads through the throny shrubs and onto a narrow peaking mound from which a drop of several yards ends in the rocky ocean’s edge. Again, it’s hard to imagine being led to the water through the darkness. Access to the beach made it easy for the slaves to be put into boats and paddled out to awaiting ships.

From here, we go back to the racing dirt road and follow it to a clearing in the coconut trees. There are two other vehicles parked under shade trees and we back into a spot. It’s not a real parking lot, just a sandy, open space at the end of the road. It feels very much like the wooded spots next to rivers and lakes in South Georgia where we swam as children; a place discovered by kids but not yet known to adults. A short walk through the bush and we’re all catching our breath at the sight of the turquoise Indian Ocean and ancient, black volcanic cliffs. A few people are already in the water so we venture to the shade of a cliff and select our spots on the rocky ledge. A guy sits on a cooler and I point and say, "Smart guy!" He smiles.

"Is that yours or are selling those?" I ask.

"I’m selling," he says and stands to open the lid. Inside, nestled in pieces of large ice, are glass bottles of Coca-Cola, Sprite, Fanta Orange, and Tusker beer. It’s so hot, I get a Coke and relax, watching Suzuki and Michelle buy their beers and sip the cold beverage in the African heat.
But we must swim before it’s time to return to town, so we all stand and begin stripping our clothes, to reveal our swim suits. Everyone who had been in the water when we arrived is now on shore, soaking in the sun. So we enter the water and bob around, enjoying the rhythm of the waves and the cooling effect of the water. Michelle and I bob next to each other while Suzuki dives nearby wearing goggles, looking for fish.

"Seba is very attactive," she says. "Men in Ethiopia do not look like that."

"Michelle," I say, as though tormented, "all the young men in Kisumu look like him. They have beautiful builds and handsome faces."

"Gee, I’m jealous," she says, "All I see are tiny Ethiopian men and you get to look at this all time." We’re both facing the shore and watching Seba as he talks to his girlfriend. Then he stands and removes his Kenya t-shirt. Michelle and I look at each other.

"Oh, dear," I say as he begins to unbutton his pants. While I find Kenyans beautiful to look at, especially when their builds are as perfect as Seba’s, I am not attracted to them. Perhaps my lack of "drive" toward Kenyans comes from knowing AIDS is so prevalent, especially in the Kisumu region. Perhaps my lack of "drive" comes from the cultural differences that make it almost impossible to communicate without misunderstandings and misinterpretations. Which is why I find it interesting that Europeans don’t mind coming over here and having "relationships" with Kenyans. Of course, I’m determined to remain celibate because of the high HIV infection rate, so it’s relatively easy to not be enticed by handsome Kenyan men. Michelle feels much the same way, but this doesn’t stop us from watching Seba step out of his pants. He is now only wearing a boxer-like swimsuit that shows off his six-pack and his long, muscular thighs. His shoulders aren’t bad either, we both agree before turning away and staring out to sea.

Soon, Seba is amongst us, wearing Suzuki’s goggles and looking at fish just below the surface. I float away from the group slightly, not wanting to be alone with Seba. But he follows and asks me where I’m from in the U.S. I tell him and he says, "Will you take me to the U.S. with you?" I laugh, but I’m thinking, ‘no freakin’ way, Dude, you’re pimping yourself to an old German woman.’ Well, that’s not the only reason I wouldn’t be interested in Seba. But he seems confident of his charm and never once appears embarrassed to be with an older woman. Every few minutes, as we all bob and enjoy the feel of the sun baking the tops of our heads, he calls my name and asks me questions. Nothing to do with Kisumu, everything to do with the U.S.
We climb out of the water, Michelle, Suzuki and me, and sit on the sand a few hundred yards down the beach. Somehow, Suzuki and Michelle produce dry cigarettes and a lighter. They enjoy a smoke, Michelle sharing a cigarette from Ethiopia and Suzuki sharing a cigarette from Japan.

Zanzibar.

Turquoise water with pure white caps. Scenes from travel brochure everywhere we look.

Ahhhhh.

Then our guide begins rounding people up, saying it’s time to return to town, and that’s just what we do. Wet, but wearing dry clothes, our van speeds through the dust clouds, air conditioner blasting. We’re dropped in town around the corner from our guest house and Suzuki says he’ll come by to get us later.

We shower, rest and eventually hear Suzuki in the lobby, talking Kiswahili and laughing with the staff, making his way up the narrow stairway to our floor. He brings the bright sun with him and we all venture out, wondering where we should watch the sun set this evening. It becomes routine, walking toward Stone Town’s harbor around 5:30 each evening to watch the sunset. On any stretch of beach, there are locals dividing up into two teams, playing soccer in the angled sunbeams. Tonight, we choose Freddy Mercury’s bar. Freddy was born in Zanzibar but later he moved to England before becoming well-known as the lead singer for Queen.

Freddy’s bar/restaurant is always busy and a magnet for white people. We never eat here for the food is expensive by Tanzanian standards, but we sit at tables on the deck's edge and talk and drink beer or soda, waiting for the sun to be gone completely before we walk the two remaining blocks to the nightly barbecue, where we can feast on the freshest of seafood for very little money. Before we go to the barbecue, while Suzuki is on his third large beer and Michelle isn’t far behind, Suzuki tells us about his research on the history of the East African trade routes. Then he mentions Sir Captain Richard Burton, how Burton was the first European to set foot in Harar, in Ethiopia. A slave-trading town, Harar was a walled city protected by its Muslim inhabitants. Any white man who ever entered the walled city never left it alive. But then came Burton, who spoke Amharic and Arabic flawlessly and who appeared Arab when he let his dark hair grow long. By the time Burton arrived in Harar, he had already penetrated Mecca, disguised as a Pathan, where he participated in the sacred annual ritual with Muslim "pilgrims" of circling the stone three times. Burton's lingusitic abilities were extensive and he learned to speak more than 30 languages and dialects fluently.

Oh, dear, what it must look like when an energetic Japanese man and an excitable American woman discover they worship the same idol! We talked non-stop about Burton and Lamu and Lake Tanginyka (which Burton "discovered") and the Mountains of the Moon. Poor Michelle. Our revelations about Burton were directed at her, as though Suzuki and I HAD to inform her about this great man or we’d fail as fans. Poor Michelle. She was interested in the part about Harar in Ethiopia since she lives near there, but her attention soon drifted and Suzuki and I didn’t notice because our enthusiasm nudged us on. "Oh," I shout, "Did you know he visited Salt Lake City in the U.S. and interviewed Brigham Young to learn more about the Mormon’s practice of polygamy?"

"No!" Suzuki says, so I must tell him about my hobby of studying Mormonism, how I wrote my master’s thesis on the Book of Mormon, and when I found Burton’s book, which intersected two of my favorite subjects in the world, I simply floated around Georgia State Univeristy for several days. "And I own the book now!" I exclaim. "I have many of his books, reprints of course, including his books on swords."

"Is it good?" Suzuki asks.

"I don’t know," I reply, "I haven’t read it. But I will, because I’ve packed away all of Burton’s book until I return home."

"I have many of his books, too," Suzuki tells me. We just grin at each other across the blue and white tablecloth, in the golden colors of the sunset. We just grin like happy idiots.

I was elated in Lamu to learn Burton had been through there, on his trek for the source of the Nile, and to know screens from the movie, "Mountains of the Moon," had been filmed in Lamu. But meeting Suzuki and hearing about his research and discussing Burton with him was an unexpected joy. Two fans meeting in Zanzibar and discussing our hero over beers at Freddy Mercury’s bar. I could have talked all night. Eventually, however, Suzuki and I reigned in our enthusiasm and changed the subject, hoping to bring the shine back to Michelle’s eyes.

In the harbor square, we strolled the path between tables of seafood and Michelle and I watched Suzuko charm the food crews. They all knew him for he’s been here most nights for the last few weeks. He talks them down to a ridiculously low price and then we move to the next table, eventually making our way around the entire complex before returning back to the first table, where he normally buys his food. While they grill our selections, we move behind the seafood and sit at a rickety picnic table, next to the harbor wall that holds back the ocean. Across the table sits a guy who also looks Japanese. We speak to him and learn he’s a volunteer who lives in a remote village in Northern Ethiopia. He’s in Zanzibar, as Michelle and I are, for a little rest and relaxation and access to good food and a few of the luxuries unavailable in Ethiopia.

After dinner, we stroll the harbor park with the two men from Japan and talk about development issues and volunteering and the Swahili culture. It’s hard to say goodnight, but we do.