Assante Sana Squash Banana

Zanzibar—it sounds like a mythical land like El Dorado, or Atlantis, or Costco but Reader, it's even better. Last month I celebrated two years in Africa and seeing the sad end in sight, two Peace Corps colleagues and I decided to venture outside Mozambique to get a different taste of Africa.

To Tanzania we went, home of Swahili, the Maasai, Kilimanjaro, the Serengeti, and an outrageously high VISA for Americans. Not to worry. Upon disembarking in Dar Es Salaam, I was just tickled to death we even made it alive considering Mozambican airports, due to their completely un-nurturing environment, are where mothers threaten to send their children when they're naughty.

Cheers to Mozambican airlines, just another testament to our survival skills my colleagues and I toasted as we popped open one of Tanzania's national lagers, a “Safari.” Appropriately named as “safari” means “journey,” one of the few Swahili words I knew. And the first big step in our journey was understanding what the heck people were saying.

I had forgotten what it was like in Mozambique those first few months not being able to communicate and I reverted right back to this sense of helplessness, my only Swahili coming from The Lion King:

Simba=lion
Rafiki=friend
Hakuna matata=no worries
Assante sana squash banana=thank you very much squash banana

I thought my basis in Koti (the local dialect in Angoche which has similarities to Swahili) and the comforting misconception that “everyone speaks English anyway” would be enough. And, I guess it was. But it would have been nicer and more respectful if I had taken the effort to learn some more key phrases. Traveling can be hard work, so why be lazy in the single thing—a common language—that could make it so much easier?

I vow in my future travels to Rosetta Stone away the Tower of Babel.

Despite the language difficulties, my colleagues and I got our ferry tickets. This is after a ferry sank just weeks ago on the same route requiring foreign aid. All the vendors kept assuring us, “Our boat won't sink. Our boat won't sink.” Umm, Titanic anyone?

We risked it, maybe secretly hoping Leo was on board and sailed away to Zanzibar.

Ahh...Zanzibar. A magical island with giant turtles, water the color of which Crayola has yet to discover, scarves galore, the friendliest most patient people, food fit for Anthony Bourdain, and the most ridiculous tourists I have ever seen. Ridiculous to the point of being embarrassing. Let me explain.

So, we stayed the majority of our time in old Stone Town where the narrow, cobblestone streets, vendors hawking their crafts, and the beautiful semi-veiled Muslim women invoke images of Aladdin, Casablanca, and a Husker home game. It is such an interesting combination of African, European, and Arabian—a mixture that sounds disastrous. And the history of the island is nothing if not contentious, but now the cultures form a kind of peaceful symbiosis. Zanzibar and everything it has to offer---the music, the food, the clothes, the people—all of it is exempt from the rigid boundaries of geographic labels. Zanzibar is not just African or Arab or European, it is all three fused together, a tri-continental, cross cultural assimilation. It is a place unlike any other.

Still, Stone Town remains very heavily Muslim from the Arab influence. This was obvious just from the pre-school uniforms where the little girls wear the veils and robes and the boys the prayer caps and robes. My site, Angoche, is similarly Muslim and conservative so I found the Call to Prayer and other traditional practices comforting.

What I did not find comforting was seeing so many tourists in their skivvies, walking around a place that is traditionally very modest. I understand people are on vacation but if you are not going to respect any of the social norms of the place you are visiting, why even go?! Any guide book will tell you that in Stone Town it is not appropriate to walk around in bikinis (I saw both men and women, yikes!) or other clothes fit for Spring Break in Cancun. Yet, so many people did.

I don't know. Maybe two years of covering my knees has turned me into a big ole' prude, but all I'm saying is that when you are visiting another country where the customs are different than yours, for Heaven's sakes, cover your butt cheeks.

In Angoche, if someone is scantily clad, they like to say that person has no “vergonha” or no “shame.” They're shameless. Good for a Garth Brooks song. Not good for one of the most traditional hubs of African history.

I'll digress because ignoring the semi-naked tourists was easy with all the treasures of Stone Town. Apart from the people and the food and the history and the beautifully crafted doors was the shopping. In Mozambique you go to the market and barter for everything. I have spent so much time negotiating the prices of things here, be it a capulana, a chapa ride, or a bag of mangoes—the difference of which might amount to 40 cents. But it's more than just the principle of demanding a fair price and not the “nzuko” or white person price, it's knowing how many pieces of bread that 40 cents could buy. I learned long ago to stop thinking in terms of dollars. The Atkins Diet's worst nightmare, I think in terms of bread.

Mozambique had trained me well for the bartering that goes on in the streets of Zanzibar. I don't know if the vendors were more impressed or terrified by my cutthroat negotiating. I'm afraid when I return to the States, I'm going to try to barter down the McDonald's Dollar Menu. Price tags will mean nothing to me.

Perusing the aisles and aisles of little treasures Zanzibar had to offer was so much fun. The best of Zanzibar shopping for me was what I call “The Isadora Duncan Corridor of Heaven,” or the scarf aisle. The women on Zanzibar use them as beautiful head wraps so they abound all over the island. And the vendors know there are lots of crazy westerners who like to wear them around our necks. It was divine. Maybe there was a time when I would have preferred something like the shopping on Rodeo Drive to the streets of Zanzibar.

Big mistake. Big. Huge.

In Zanzibar, it's all about the experience. Walking the streets of old Stone Town was like walking through a labyrinth of stalls and stores and musicians and delicious food.

And one inevitably would find herself lost in the maze. But you never had to hurry or worry or use a spool of thread to find your way out because being lost was all part of the magic. Plus, so much more welcoming than a minotaur were the beautiful and nice shop owners or other locals who were ready to help you navigate the maze.

After some days in Stone Town and a trek to visit the famous Zanzibar giant turtles, we finally forced ourselves to venture out of Stone Town to take a tour of something else Zanzibar is famous for—spices!

After the sport of cricket, horticulture is probably the second least interesting thing in the world to me, but a tour of the origin of the spices, their plants, and how each culture used them in the past was pretty fascinating. Curry, cloves, cinnamon, mint...I'm now certain I would dominate the “Name that Spice Challenge” on Top Chef.

Our trip also entailed an excursion to the beaches of the north where Maasai warriors guarded the entrances of beautiful, honeymooning-filled resorts. It was interesting meeting fellow travelers there, many who were doing the Serengeti safari, Kilimanjaro climb and beaches of Zanzibar circuit. Many were darlings. Many were insufferable. The most important thing I learned from all the visitors was how not to be a pain-in-the-ass tourist.

You know, one night on Stone Town we were watching the sunset from Mercury's restaurant, named after Freddie Mercury himself, a native of Zanzibar, and I got to thinking. If not for Zanzibar, we would not have Freddie Mercury, and then we would not have “Fat Bottomed Girls,” or “Somebody to Love,” or “Bohemian Rhapsody,” and then where would Glee be?!

I shudder to think.

Maybe it was bizarre, walking down the ancient streets humming “We Are the Champions” simultaneously passing some Maasai, a group of Muslim women in full gowns, and tourists in string bikinis. But that's what Zanzibar is. East meets West. Past meets present. Conservatism meets tourism. Queen meets The Lion King. And somehow it all works.

Zanzibar was so lovely but truly one of the best parts was when we serendipitously ran into another group of vacationing Mozambicans. There was a big group hug, and pictures, and promises to visit each other. It was the excited embrace of fellow countrymen reunited in a faraway land finally speaking a familiar language, talking about how we miss home, how we miss Mozambique.

The vacay was great but I knew I was ready to come back to Mozambique, my home for the last two years; my home for just a while longer until November 18 when I will complete my service, hang up my Peace Corps robe, say goodbye to Mozambique, and return to America.