The shadows of Dar es Salaam are now behind us. The Azam Marine hydrofoil skims the aqua ocean heading towards the island of Zanzibar. There is a buzz in the cabin. It seems surreal that we’re finally off the train and now headed to golden sands and pale blue waters.
I can see the Island on the horizon and gaze out the window itching for us to arrive. I can’t believe how much I smell. It’s not pleasant to admit but I really stink. My hair is thick and matted with dirt; my clothes are as stiff as cardboard. In crisp white contrast the crew hand out some muffins and spice tea which I hungrily accept and gratefully consume. All I can think about is a shower and find myself discussing and obsessing; it can’t come soon enough.
The boat’s engine slow and Stone Town’s Port is in sight. It’s time to say goodbye to the Canadians who are heading directly to Paje where they have rented a private house. It’s sad to say goodbye after such an extraordinary few days together. We make for the old town quarter with Imogen and Flynn. Inspecting a small cluster of cheap end lodgings we settle on the Manch Hotel which has a lovely garden shaded by a Mango tree. It is run by Godfrey but owned by a local lady who sits in a chair by the entrance of the lobby.
I make straight for the shared bathrooms. I care about nothing else. After much scrubbing, I finally see the water run clean. I don’t even care that it’s cold, I am just so grateful for the feeling of rejuvenation.
Spotlessly clean I am now ready to arrest my hunger and head to lunch. We come across a pleasant little café called the Green Garden Pizzeria. Everything tastes so fresh. Zanzibar is renowned for its sea food and I quickly take advantage by ordering grilled Tuna and green vegetables a steal at only $6 USD. We are all in jubilant mood and reflect back on highlights from the train journey.
Stone town itself is a labyrinth of narrow streets and alleyways. The dirty and faded Arabic designed buildings show glimpses of an extravagant past. The grand wooden doors have decorative brass studs and handles. The air is scented with a cocktail of spices. Mesmerised by the sights we realise that the day is coming to an end. We’ve been so captivated by the architecture and people going about their day we’ve lost track of time. We conclude our long but memorable day by taking in the sunset with a well-deserved cocktail and a blissfully sound sleep.
Revitalised the next morning, Imogen and I are keen to go for a swim. She inquires if I feel any discomfort or itching on my back. I find this odd as I can feel nothing untoward other than maybe some tingling. Alarmingly she tells me that I have a large rash on my back. I head back to the guest house to see for myself. My back is covered in a hideous red rash. The intensity of the itching is growing by the second. I decide the best course of action is to have a cold shower and lie under the fan, hoping that it will subside. My skin is breaking out all over and spreading. By early afternoon my arms and fingers have joined in. The next morning it has spread to my legs and heading for my toes. The rash is turning to welts and breaking out into blisters; I am literally burning up. My instinct is to not scratch but I can’t figure out what I have… Maybe I have an allergic reaction to something, the sheets perhaps but why am I blistering and why is nobody else suffering from this affliction? Surely if it was something in the room we’d all have this problem. I am becoming scared and desperate. I suspect it’s a heat rash and go looking on the internet for some assurance. By process of elimination aided by Google images, I conclude that I have an extreme heat rash. This is when the body has been unable to sweat (it has been incredibly humid here) and in extreme cases the sweat glands become blocked and infected forming blisters… Great!!
Greg takes me to a doctor; we converse in very limited English. After much pointing and charades he confirms that I am indeed suffering from an extreme heat rash. The culprit is being on the train along with the humidity in Zanzibar. Armed with anti-biotics and anti-histamines, I am told to not go out and to lie in a cold room, which will now entail an upgrade to AC as we had booked ourselves in a fan room to save money. After a couple of days with little improvement we formulate a plan to head to Kendwa beach where it should be cooler and stay in an AC room until the rash starts to heal. A Taxi with AC is on stand by and I am quickly transferred like a patient in an ambulance and taken to Kendwa Rocks where my AC prison awaits ready and prepared for my arrival. Two more days of staying inside with early evening swims in the sea and the rash is starting to abate. I am very much relieved. While at Kendwa we meet two German men Siggy and Simon who are travelling together in Tanzania. Both have travelled extensively and I love hearing Simon’s stories about travelling through India in the 70’s. Imogen and Flynn are keeping the flag waving for GB but Greg and I are doing a poor job when it comes to nightlife, although we do fit in a few Mojitos and some shisha.
The rash is still around but less severe now. The Brits and Germans head home and Greg and I head to Pongwe a small beach about 10km south of Kendwa. It is a cast away tropical paradise. The crystal clear water looks like a Bounty commercial. Although I normally hate the ocean; those you know me well there is no explanation required, the water is irresistible.
Rested and fully recovered after four more nights we decide we need to get back on track and head for the mainland. The local taxi drivers are wanting double again but we have little time and very little luggage, so we decide to go for the Dalla Dalla instead. Dalla Dalla’s are rickety trucks a little like a large tuk tuk, except it has two hard wooden benches that run lengthways and absolutely no limit to its carrying capacity. If it were in Australia it could carry no more than 12 passengers but here in Africa where world records are silently set on a daily basis we climb in with a cosy 25 others, as well as buckets of locally caught fish and stow away flies. We sit waiting for more passengers to board when a commotion breaks out. Lots of shouting, people hitting their own foreheads and violently waving at each other. Logs are picked up and thrown to the ground. People leave the Dalla Dalla in protest and I quietly say to Greg that I hope this isn’t because of us; it isn’t the usual mode of transport for a tourist. Have we done something wrong?
The whole village and passengers inside are shouting. From what I can make out the Dalla Dalla Driver has not followed protocol and now we have to board another one, phew at least it’s not us. We are then swept along with the crowd and somehow get to sit right at the back with the buckets of smelly fish and bags of tomatoes going soft in the heat. I wonder if this is to keep us in place. There’s certainly no chance of bouncing out, although if we crash we’ve defiantly had it. We get moving and I crane my neck for a little fresh air, even a sardine would get claustrophobia in this contraption! It’s quite an amusing site, Greg and I confronted by all these faces, staring at us inquisitively with wonderment… Why are you not in a taxi?
As we routinely pull into villages, the locals who are sat whiling away the time, let their bored gazes fall on the Dalla Dalla, such a familiar sight to them, so unremarkable. It’s hilarious to watch them give the passengers the once over and then suddenly spot us. Their apathy evaporates, replaced by befuddlement and then laughter. We greet each of the perplexed onlookers with a smile. I remark to Greg, that you know you’re doing something interesting when the locals are surprised to see you there. After a bone shaking, arse numbing journey we reach Stone Town for our last night on this beautiful Island.
Tomorrow it’s back to mainland to organise a bus from Dar es Salaam to Moshi on the lower slopes of Kilimanjaro.
Love Emma and Greg
Interesting..a lot happening.
An interesting commonality.. small Suzuki vans with a tailboard(Dalla) used as transport ‘buses’ are also called ‘Dalla’ in Pakistan. (Dalla pronounced only once). GLOBALIZATION?
Yes I thought it was called the same in Pakistan
What an interesting entry Em…..you poor thing…just when you are squeaky clean again back comes the rash. Loved the pics you posted and as always glad you are enjoying your travels and managing to keep in touch.
Drinks at the Coogee Bay Hotel seem so long ago…..take care xo
Thanks Singy the rash is all gone now. Our Safari was fantastic will put a new story up soon. So glad you are following our journey with interest it makes us both really happy and feel we are not alone.
xx
Have recovered from illness ,look foreward to reading more about your travels
Dad