The next day, our first full one in Stone Town, was a relaxed affair. Sam and I took off on our own, wandering the narrow labyrinthine streets where grapevines and bougainvillea canopies gave relief from the heat, moss- and lichen-covered plaster crumbled off the red-coral-rock walls, and conversations echoed from dark entrances and shuttered windows, while phone and electrical wires tangled around gutters and across roofs. In one place entire walls had collapsed into an empty building. As Matt would comment later, it seemed like the whole place was slowly and gracefully falling down.
We purposefully got lost in the old city. Each corner could reveal a sun-bleached small square, where a gathering of men discussed politics while sipping coffee sitting on baraza, the long stone benches outside of the buildings, wearing kufis (small white caps) and traditional long white robes. Young men sat astride their red Vespas chatting on mobiles, and clusters of schoolchildren scattered off to school or prayers, the girls with colourful kangas wrapped over their heads.
There were cats in doorways, latticed verandahs, horseshoe archways, carved wooden balustrades, and stairwells disappearing into shadows. Stone Town oozed mystery. It also promised excitement. As Major F.B. Pearce exclaimed in 1919, ‘Over all there is the din of barter, of shouts from the harbour; the glamour of the sun, the magic of the sea and the rich savour of Eastern spice. This is Zanzibar!’
It seemed not much had changed, beyond the mobiles and the tourists.
We strolled the streets, drank coffee on cafe balconies, browsed the tourist shops and ducked and weaved to avoid the incessant hawkers, known as papasi (ticks), who were relentless in their attempts to winkle some shillings out of the wazungu. Sam and I played chess and cards, did some reading, writing and drawing, juggled and boxed. Sam read the whole of Animal Farm, his first non-Harry Potter book, while sitting in the stone amphitheatre in the centre of town. It was a good day in Africa for both of us.
In the evening, the five of us headed out to dinner in an upmarket restaurant, taking our seats on a balcony overlooking the narrow winding stone alley below. It was our last evening with Matt who was heading home early the next morning. An attractive African woman came over to take our order. Matt, Morton and Naomi placed their orders. The waitress turned to Sam. ‘I’ll have an African woman, please,’ he stated, clearly and firmly. Matt shaded his eyes with his hand, Morton’s head hit the table and Naomi burst out laughing. I jumped in to rescue the situation. ‘He’ll have a burger and chips, and so will I.’ The woman just smiled and gently shook her head as she walked away.
The next morning Matt headed off to fly back to Australia. It had been great to have him around, and for Sam to encounter another familiar face. It was also good to have someone who had known Sam all his life observe his progress and participate in his adventure.
Sam, Morton, Naomi and I then got to work over breakfast, planning our time on Zanzibar, maps and the Lonely Planet guide sitting beside our coffee and toast. We allocated another day in Stone Town and three days travelling around the island. We thought hiring a car was probably the best option after leaving the city. Minibuses were possible, but accommodation in the rural areas was often hard to get to in places, especially with packs.
The rest of the day was more organised. Morton, Naomi, Sam and I booked a boat trip out to Prison Island, five kilometres offshore, and then a dhow cruise at sunset. With events piling up I reminded myself not to push Sam too hard in the middle of the day; it would be a lot for him to cope with.
The Arabs had isolated recalcitrant slaves on Prison Island. Later the British had erected a prison there but the buildings were never used for their intended purpose. Instead those on ships suspected of having yellow fever or cholera were quarantined there for a week or two, to protect Stone Town, then the busiest port in east Africa, from epidemics. More recently, its isolation has provided protection for another species, the Aldabra giant sea tortoises of the Indian Ocean.
Previously widespread but then nearly hunted into extinction in the nineteenth century, the tortoises are now only found naturally in the wild on one atoll in the Seychelles. In 1919, four specimens were gifted to Zanzibar by the British governor of the Seychelles, and they were kept on Prison Island. Isolated and protected, their numbers quickly increased. In the late twentieth century, however, poaching dramatically reduced the population, nearly wiping out the colony, before a secure enclosure allowed the tortoises to thrive once again.
Sam was fascinated by the huge beasts, which can weigh more than two hundred and fifty kilograms and have amazing longevity. One specimen on Prison Island was 192 years old.
‘What do you think of that, Sam?’ Naomi asked.
‘That means he was born in 1823,’ he replied. ‘He was born before the American Civil War.’ Naomi was impressed with Sam’s history knowledge. All those conversations we’d had at the back of buses were paying off.
We had unfettered access to the animals, and Sam was brave enough to gently stroke one old timer’s head, which apparently they liked. Unfortunately, an idiotic tourist stood astride one of the tortoises, which we’d been unambiguously instructed not to do as it distresses them. I thought the South African curator was going to explode. ‘Get off that tortoise now!’ He told us he’d had to put a tortoise down a few years earlier when some clown stood on its shell and broke it.
The dhow cruise was a much more laidback affair. The elegant sailing ships are masterpieces of simple design. A single triangular sail was rolled and tied to a long yard, mounted at an angle on the mast. By adjusting the angle of the yard and the sail with two simple ropes on each end of the yard, the sailor can easily adjust direction and speed, including being able to tack into the wind. It was like a giant windsurfer, or more correctly, a windsurfer was like a mini dhow; dhows have been around the coastlines of eastern Africa, Arabia and India for thousands of years.
Sam chilled as we glided along in the waters beside Stone Town, our taut and trim sail a cream obtuse triangle floating on the jade waters. He draped his fingers over the gunwale, trailing a white V in the sea water. His floppy hat, which we had bought way back at Guma Lagoon Camp on the Okavango Delta, blew off his head and landed in the water, beyond my reach in a flash. Another item to add to the list of the lost, broken and missing in action. Well, at least our packs were getting lighter.
That evening, Morton, Naomi, Sam and I went to an Indian restaurant where the food was excellent, the electricity supply intermittent, and Sam’s behaviour, to put it in his words, ‘disappointing’. I think he’d picked up that adjective from his mother. The source of the dispute was that Sam wanted all of the garlic naans and none of the curries, a point on which he proved inflexible. I finally had to pull the plug and leave early so the rest of the restaurant could eat in peace. I think the heavily scheduled day had knocked him around: three boat rides, lots of sun and too much novelty. Maybe a curry was a bridge too far.
In the morning we bade goodbye to Morton, after nearly a month travelling together. He had been a terrific ally and good friend to both Sam and me. Coming into our lives when he did was perfect timing, as I was really flagging at that time. After he departed, it was down to Naomi, Sam and me. We were on the road again, but for the first time in almost six months I was doing the driving. We hired a small Suzuki four-wheel drive and drove north out of Stone Town. But finding a petrol station immediately proved to be a challenge, given the African penchant for vague directions.
‘Yes, turn left down there,’ we were told, followed by a sweeping wave off into the distance.
‘It is some kilometres,’ was another response.
‘Yes, we have one. It is close around here.’
The driving also proved challenging. I warned Naomi my plan was to give way to everybody.
Leaving urbane Stone Town, we headed north through plantings of coconuts, bananas, avocados and jackfruits, the latter’s bulbous forms heavy on the branches. Rainstorms and glaring sun reminded us how close we were to the equator. Young schoolgirls walked past in matching veils, drenched but unfazed.
We were approaching the northern tip of the island when a turn-off to a beach appeared on our left. I pulled up to have a look around.
On the beach stood a young lad, probably close to Sam’s age but half his weight, standing tall in a high-buttoned shirt. He stepped forward. ‘Sir, I am Ishmael. I would like to act as your guide, if you would like. There are some nearby historical ruins.’
‘How much?’ I replied.
‘Two dollars,’ Ishmael said, carefully, ‘but if you don’t want to pay, that is all right.’
I was stumped by Ishmael’s honesty. Meanwhile his friends were mocking and imitating Sam, who was excited and jumping around. I became irritated until I realised they were imitating all three of us. I guess we were novelties, after all.
Ishmael walked us down the beach and then across to a nearby decaying coral-stone building. Ishmael told us that the house had been built by Portuguese traders in the fifteenth or sixteenth century. ‘They lived here for a few hundred years. They traded metal materials for spices and ivory.’ His account was backed up by some official signs around the site. I was not only impressed by Ishmael’s English and his knowledge but his delivery. He was a bright spark all right.
I was also impressed by the ruins, and tried to convey a historical picture to Sam. ‘Imagine, Sam, living back here in the sixteen hundreds, where the only people you would know would be in this house, and it would be years and years before you would see any of your own people.’
Sam looked out the corner of his eye in his enigmatic way. ‘Yeah.’ On the way back to the car Ishmael told me he wanted to be a doctor. ‘I want to help people. I want to help women and babies who are dying when they shouldn’t be dying.’
‘I’m a doctor,’ I said.
‘Oh, really?’ Ishmael’s eyes lit up. ‘You have studied mathematics, and physics, and chemistry? These things?’
I smiled at his enthusiasm. ‘Yes, sure.’
‘Oh, I want to study these things,’ he lamented.
‘I really hope you get to do this. I think you would make a good doctor,’ I said, meaning it.
In Africa, however, so much talent goes untapped.
As we arrived at the tip and headed down the east coast, surf beaches stretched out before us, lined with five-star resorts. This was the other major tourist attraction in Zanzibar besides the history and culture of Stone Town: the natural beauty of the beaches on the east coast. However, as we hit the intersection to the road heading down the coast, our trip hit a snag.
We had already gone through three police checks since leaving Stone Town. In general, African police and army checkpoints are uncertain affairs; you never know whether you are going to be met with a smile or a scowl. Many officials seem overly fond of their uniforms and the authority that comes with them.
Here a single soldier stood at the intersection, holding his machine gun. He stood in the middle of the road as I drove up and signalled for us to stop. He approached Naomi on the passenger side of the car and she rolled down the window.
‘Put your seatbelt up over your shoulder,’ he snapped. ‘You are not wearing your seatbelt correctly.’
We had a scowler.
Naomi nodded and adjusted her seatbelt, which she’d had under her arm to allow her to manoeuvre the camera more effectively. He checked the insurance stickers on the windscreen. Then he walked towards my open window and thrust out his hand. ‘Papers!’ I handed him my international driving licence and car registration papers.
He looked at the papers with a frown. ‘Are you a good driver?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, my voice rising a few octaves.
‘No, you’re not. You’re a bad driver,’ he snapped.
Sam piped up from the back seat. ‘No, Dad! You’re a good driver.’
‘Sam, be quiet!’ I hissed out of the corner of my mouth.
The soldier glared at Sam before turning back to me. ‘You did not indicate when pulling off the road, and your passenger was not wearing her seatbelt correctly. You are a bad driver.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I agreed, willing Sam to keep quiet.
He stood for a long time reading our papers, which really didn’t have much information on them to read. Finally he looked at me. ‘Why did you not indicate?’
‘We don’t use indicators in Australia,’ I lied, although it did seem overkill to indicate when you’d been specifically directed by an official to the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.
He shook his finger at me. ‘This will cost you one hundred and fifty dollars. You understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He pulled his ticket book out of his pocket and pushed it towards me. ‘So you will have to go to court and pay this money. When do you fly home?’
‘In a week,’ I said.
‘Hmm.’ He didn’t seem happy with that. A pause, then, ‘What are we going to do about this?’
Naomi and I both recognised the language; this was a set-up for another bribe. I was getting heartily sick of this and was reluctant to cave in too quickly. He repeated again. ‘Well, what can you do to help me solve this problem?’
Looking back and forward to Naomi, I pretended to be confused. ‘I’m not sure. What are you suggesting? Do you want me to apologise? If I have to pay a fine, I have to pay a fine.’
Naomi joined in. ‘I’m not sure either. I can’t think of anything that will help.’
His frustration was rising at our apparent stupidity. If it wasn’t for the fact that I didn’t want to land Sam in a potentially dangerous situation I’d have been tempted to call his bluff. But not today. As he reached for his pen and started to write on the ticket pad, I pulled out my wallet. ‘Will some money help?’
‘How much?’ I opened my wallet, where the equivalent of twenty US dollars was visible. I’d learnt this was the amount you should always have in your fake wallet: enough to satisfy most extorters, but only just enough.
He nodded. ‘That will do.’
‘What a dick!’ Naomi said, as soon as we had pulled away and were out of earshot.
Sam was unhappy. ‘You’re not a bad driver. The police officer is wrong.’
I smiled. ‘He was just trying to get money out of me, Sam. He’s a corrupt policeman.’ Sam was familiar with the word corrupt from computer programs. It’s not often a boy Sam’s age gets to witness official corruption firsthand. He talked about it for days.