Stone Town is trying to kill me, I swear.
Still feeling the effects of being onioned by my ‘banana and Nutella’ Zanzibar pizza, I cut open my omelette at breakfast to find it filled with slices of red onion.
On the plus side, I got an extra chapati to make up for it and there’s no such thing as too much chapati.
After breakfast, I set out to explore Stone Town.
I managed to navigate back to the site of the night market as a starting point, as Ronny had told me in the day it’s empty and totally different. It sits right on the harbour and I was taking in the view when I was approached by a Maasai selling slippers. After exchanging Maa greetings, I told him I have Maasai friends and would buy anything I wanted from them. His response was to point at himself, say “Me very nice. Black Maasai for you.” And bare his stained teeth at me (just for clarity, the other Maasai I’ve met have perfect teeth). I politely told him I am not looking for a man here and we exchanged goodbyes.
As he left, he shouted “Sister!” And I turned back to find he was indicating where a 10000 tzs note had fallen from my pocket – so kudos to him for his honesty. He was gone before I’d finished picking it up.
I made my way past the ferry and then entered a local market area. My times in Kenya had prepared me well for the noise, bustle, heat and assault to all senses – as well as the skills to not falter as traffic passed within a hair’s breadth of me. Occasionally, I felt a rising panic but I just kept exhaling it out and kept moving forward.
Passing stalls brimming with fruit, corn on the cob, dates and random household items, I watched everyday life unfold.
It was a sensory explosion. Not just the sights and sounds, but the melange of smells: roasting meat and baked goods, to dust, to drains.
Every street, and most doorways, featured a cat but none of them are interested in you unless you have food.
The same conversation played out over and over in refrain:
“‘Mambo/ Jambo/ Hello”
“Poa” (I’m good)
“Karibu” (Welcome)
“Asante” (Thanks)
I was also frequently approached by people outright asking for money; sometimes these were elderly or using a stick/ in a wheelchair but the common refrain was asking me to ‘support’ them (sellers use the same terminology). Travelling on a tight budget, it just wasn’t possible for me to ‘support’ all these people, and I don’t really know what the answer is, but it broke my heart each and every time.
An older gentleman, wearing a baseball cap, remarked on my Swahili responses and we had a brief conversation in Swahili. He’d fallen into step alongside me and told me he was on his way to work, that he sold spices in the local market. Not having any set plan, I agreed to take a look at his stall.
He led me back to the area I’d just come from and squatted next to the stall where several other men stood behind small packets of different spices and spice mixes. One of the stall holder then started giving me pots and vials to smell, asking me to guess what it contained. I guessed all of them correctly.
I have to say, his spiel was both informative and entertaining so I agreed to buy some of the spice packets (a spice blend for chai, cinnamon coffee and a pilau spice mix to replicate the rice I had with the Maasai).
The old man then continued to walk with me as I left, telling me to follow him into the chicken market.
Outside the market there were a group of women squatting next to blue plastic bowls filled with water and chicken parts. I had to hold my breath as we passed, as the smell caught in the back of my throat.
Inside, we emerged into a room filled with cages containing different breeds of chicken…and one duck. I know I’m a hypocrite, as I eat chicken, but seeing them packed into the cages was awful.
The old man urged me to take a photo, which I thought was weird, but he insisted and so I did. We then went to another room, containing metal work surfaces where chicken meat was being carved up by a group of men, watched by a cat, and the man again urged me to take a photo.
Outside, we passed avocados the size of grapefruits, jack fruit and chillis arranged in order of kick (yellow are the hottest), as well as coloured pasta in elaborate shapes and various wooden carts laden with wares.
All the while, the man kept urging me to take photos and that’s when it clicked: I’d fallen into the trap of being taken on an unofficial tour.
I tried to raise this with him; saying I thought he was just going to work, and that he had the spice stall, and he said that was his stall, but didn’t respond to my other questions.
A little annoyed at myself for not having realised sooner, I just went with it and let him lead me through the narrow streets, pointing out elaborate doorways and historical landmarks.
We re-emerged back at the night market site and he told me he was going home to sleep now, holding out his hand for ‘support’. I only had larger notes on me so I handed him the only smaller one I had, which was 2000tzs and he graciously accepted it.
By this time it was a little after 2pm and I was hungry, so decided to check out the infamous Lukmaan’s restaurant.
It was, by far, the busiest establishment: every table, across two levels, appeared full. I asked if they had a table for one and they seated me on the corner of a table already occupied by a group of Italian ladies.
I couldn’t resist ordering one more chapati to go with my fish, and trying the Jackfruit and mango smoothie. The staff were impressed I ordered entirely in Swahili and I spent a pleasant hour there. I have to say, though: whilst everything was fine and the prices were reasonable, it wasn’t as nice as the food I had on the coast. In fact, the best food I’ve had here, hands down, has been in the local restaurants. You know: the ones without a menu.
Over the course of the day I’d had morning texts from around six of the local men (including all three Maasai) and one from Ronny asking How is Sam doing today? and saying if I need anything at all not to hesitate to ask.
One of the guys from the coast said he was also in Stone Town, visiting his mum, and when he’d said his friend was also here she said she’d love to meet me. We arranged she’d cook us dinner and then we’d all go for a walk.
I headed home for a shower and a nap, as the heat in Stone Town is oppressive (the coast has a nice breeze).
Although the weather still wasn’t conducive to catching one of the sunsets the West coast is famous for, I headed back out in the late afternoon, wearing my Dera for comfort, and to try and minimise the attention, to try and catch sunset from the beach.
Weaving through the narrow streets I received number compliments – one local woman told me I looked very pretty; another that the dera looks good on me; school girls giggled and whispered about the ‘muzungu’ – one told me she liked my dress – and a group of men told me my hair is very beautiful. My hair has been a big deal here – everyone seems to love it and want to touch it.
I found the beach and weaved through the groups playing football, sitting listening to music on their phones, or just chilling. The sand here is coarser than on the coast and requires care as there were some glass shards and broken bottles.
Reaching the end of the patch of beach, I sat on a patch of sand and watched the sun start to dip low on the horizon.
Within minutes, a young man asked me if he could sit with me as he is a student of English and wanted to practice. I agreed and we had a conversation whilst the sun set; at the point I told him I was about to meet a friend from the coast, however, he hurriedly left.
He was instantly replaced by another, with the same request, but this one did tell me a little of the history of Stone Town and Prison Island. He was keen to improve his English, as one day he would like to get a job in Europe. I asked what he would like to do if he could do anything, but think the question got lost in translation, as he told me he could do many things: work in a hotel, drive a car, or clean. He suggested we go sit elsewhere but I told him I was about to meet a friend and he too left.
As I began to walk back across the beach I was stopped by a uniformed security guard. He told me he doesn’t speak much English and asked the usual questions, such as my name, where I’m from, how long I have been in Zanzibar and a local man wearing a yellow t-shirt that stood out against the twilight helped translate.
The security guard then told me he wants to be with a white woman and he likes my body very much, so will I be his girlfriend? I said no and he asked if I would give him my number so we can talk. I declined this too. He kept telling me how much he wants me because he wants a white woman, so I told the local man to translate that this dude needs to up his game and this cracked him up.
Eventually, I managed to extract myself from the security guard and the man in yellow then fell into step with me, teaching me Swahili phrases. He was a patient teacher and when I told him I was about to meet a friend he continued to walk alongside, and even wait with me until my friend from the coast arrived.
The three of us sat on the harbour wall. My friend from the coast handed me a piece of sugar cane (I wasn’t sure if I was meant to just suck it or actually eat it!) and, when I asked where his mother was, he said she’d remained at home. He suggested we go for a walk, so I bid goodbye to my teacher in yellow and we headed out.
I found myself struggling to keep up with his pace and my gut told me something was wrong, so after a little while I asked if we were going somewhere in particular or if we were just wandering. He told me we were heading in the direction of his mum’s but would need to also take a car.
At that point I told him no, I was going home to pack. No way was I getting into a vehicle with this man to go who-knows-where.
He walked me back some of the way and then we parted ways.
I submerged myself back into the streets of Stone Town in search of water and food.
Sensing someone close behind me, I slowed my pace so they could pass and felt a brush of fear when they slowed too.
Turning, I realised it was the man in yellow. He asked if I had finished with my friend and I told him what happened. He said men like him aren’t good news and that he didn’t think he’s originally from Zanzibar (he was right as the guy is from Pemba).
He then continued my Swahili lesson and moments later we were joined by his friend, who also wanted to learn English.
I’d messaged Ronny to ask if I’d be able to get water at home, as by this point I was super thirsty, and he told me he was home, I definitely could get water there and to get back safe.
When I told my new acquaintances I was heading back now they walked me right to the door, which actually was helpful as Google maps often gets Stone Town streets wrong. The man in yellow then asked for my number to stay in touch, as he is currently working in Germany and thinking of doing some travel in Europe this year, and I did give it to him.
I found Ronny sitting in what surely must be his favourite chair and he greeted me with a big smile.
He asked all about my day, so I told him.
Ronny apologised repeatedly for all the men. He said he’d spotted me when in the barbers (who apparently aren’t as good as those in Daar) earlier in the day, and thought about calling out to me, or coming after me, but then thought about all I’d said about men and decided not to. I told him he was the exception and he squirmed in his seat, smiling (he does this in response to any kind of compliment).
I got him to show me what was under his hat; he’d been wearing some form of hat every time I’d seen him.
Then he added that after he’d had his shower and gotten into bed the previous night he’d seen my WhatsApp status update about the hassle at the night market and felt bad for me; it had made him sad.
I told him some anecdotes and we had a chat about the men here. He said what he’d heard in the barbers (men boasting about multiple women) and how he isn’t about that.
When I mentioned my Lukmann’s lunch he commented that I’d eaten chapati (I hadn’t mentioned this, but had posted a WhatsApp status about it) and that it had made him realise he hadn’t had one ‘in a minute’ and that he’d actually then gone and bought one. I told him chapati are my favourite food and asked if he’d gotten the reference to a Sauti Sol song in the caption (Unconditionally Bae); he knew the song, but hadn’t, and said he was going to look out for my cryptic captions in the future.
We spent a full two hours in conversation, and it felt like two minutes.
I asked what the hand thing was all about; if it was some sort of local custom. He said it was just a him thing.
Ronny then asked if I thought I’d return to Zanzibar and when I said yes he punched the air and appeared overjoyed; he said given what I’d posted he thought I definitely wouldn’t and now he was happy. That his house is my house and if I returned I wouldn’t need to go outside in Stone Town – whatever I needed he would bring it. He then mimicked my voice asking him to bring him juice and him going to get it.
Much of the two hours were spent with Ronny giving reasons why I should get my stuff from home and then move to Zanzibar, or the mainland (where he’s from). When I said a visa may be an issue for long term stays, he responded with “some people do the whole arranged marriage thing to get one”, then asked me what my type is.
My brain instantly responded with ‘you’ (the attraction has returned by this point). But I couldn’t say that, so instead responded with, “I don’t think I want to tell you.”
“If it’s an arranged marriage it doesn’t really matter anyway,” Ronny responded, adding he wasn’t asking me to do that.
I joked by asking him if he’d just fake asked me to marry him and he squirmed and said he wasn’t.
Were we flirting? I wasn’t sure.
Ronny and I bonded further over chats about introversion: he told me about his journey to self-acceptance, his passion for creativity and growth and how he embraces ageing (turns out he’s 28, so way too young for me anyway).
He asked about my family and, upon discovering I’m an only child and how my parents thought they couldn’t have children for a long time, commented that I am a ‘gift’. Locals here call gift ‘gifty’ and he asked for my permission for him to change my name in his phone to ‘Gifty’: I agreed and he held up the screen to show me, saying he will send me updates on when he achieves things we had spoken about.
We both delayed parting – he was waiting for his friend and colleague to collect something and, I can’t deny, by this point my interest had fully rekindled, even if his age meant that, regardless of his interest, it wouldn’t work.
Once his friend arrived, it was time for bed.
Ronny again carried the water decanter to my room, asked permission to come in and after placing it on the table stood with his palm against mine for the duration of an entire conversation. He then bid me good night and told me he’d be at the Airbnb early the next morning.
.
.
.
He arrived just after breakfast, dressed entirely in white. I’d worn my nicest dress and he definitely looked me up and down whilst asking if I’d slept well.
We walked together to my taxi (which he’d arranged), him carrying my backpack and, after depositing it in the boot of the taxi he turned to me. I asked if we were doing the palm thing or a hug and he said both. So we held our palms together, then embraced, and he told me he hopes to see me again soon.
I looked back as the taxi pulled away but he’d already gone.
In all honesty, my time in Stone Town meant I’d been ready to leave, but after those final interactions with Ronny, it was another tough goodbye.
As I write this, I am flying to Nairobi, but I for sure left a piece of my heart in Zanzibar.