Nearing our Caravan's End in Bagamoyo
Trip Start
Sep 15, 2006
1
43
80
Trip End
??? ??, 2007
Bagamoyo,
Tanzania
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Bagamoyo's shallow waters were only suitable for small vessels, such as the Arabic dhows that still ply the channel between here and Zanzibar. The Germans gave up on the harbor in the waning years of the 19th Century, and decided to go south and found a new city called Dar es Salaam. Bagamoyo has stagnated since, giving us a peek at an old colonial city which was never really developed further by native interests.
That's not to say that anythings been well taken care of. Most of the colonial buildings are in a state of neglect, and there are plenty of modern slums around town looking equally dilapidated.
Our dalla-dalla pulled up into one of the few new buildings in town, a half completed bus terminal, sporting a construction noticeboard but no noticeable work being done or equipment about. Two "friends" immediately set upon us to help us find a guest house. We've deduced that these guys demand a fee from whatever hostel they accompany you to, raising the rate that the owner quotes you. We politely asked them to go away, but they would not. Standing still didn't work either as they just stood with us, watching the sun set. Finally we just walked blithely past the next guest house they were pointing at and they broke off pursuit, shouting vague threats disguised as friendly advice. "Bagamoyo is a dangerous place!" Pathetic.
Once we were rid of the pests, it took only a few minutes to find a room at a nice little place with a bar and restaurant attached, important features in a city where you've been warned to not venture out past dark. We went to the bar and shared a soft drink, and then I had "Tanzania's Great Beer", a Safari, which actually isn't too bad, when it's cold and everything around you is blazing hot. Being a little bit tipsy also helps you to fall asleep when the temperature in your room registers at too hot to breathe.
I understand why all the windows have bars on them, but why do all the rooms here have windows on only one side? Air circulation, like all revolutionary ideas, is strictly discouraged. As a result, once the day's heat has subsided into the comfort of evening, you open the door to your room to find a heat wave lurking inside. Turning the fan on just blows the hot air around, and so you wake up in the night, drenched in sweat, pillow dripping, and lie awake in misery until exhaustion carries you away again. Wishing to skip this step, I stripped off all my clothes and flopped down on the bed. Nude man in repose, face down.
In the morning, we awoke sluggishly, then did our own laundry in the courtyard, to the amusement of the staff. By the time we left the hotel, it was too late to find chapati, Cierra's favored breakfast, so we had to settle for a fried dough ball, like a donut but not sweet, called Andazi. We took a walk through the old market and found a pineapple stand, where Cierra got a small one cut up for a snack. The man was a genius with his knife, and we stood watching him section the pineapple into succulent bites with the blade while holding the fruit by the stem with the other hand. Each piece dropped into the bag below as he finished a stroke, and in under a minute the whole thing was done.
We walked out to the old German Mission, past rows of dusty houses and the occasional colonial ruin. The mission is the prettiest thing about the town, a silver cross on the beach marking the spot where the Roman Catholic Church first landed to convert East Africa, although with limited success. From there, a long avenue lined with shady mango trees leads straight back half a kilometer to the mission buildings. There's a very well-done museum on the history of Bagamoyo, from which I poached heavily at the beginning of this entry. There's also a tower remaining from the first church built here, notable because Dr. Livingstone's body rested here for one night before continuing on to Britain and Westminster Abbey. I also enjoyed the gargantuan baobab tree out back, planted by the mission in the 1870's and now over 12 and a half meters in circumference. Standing next to its grey bulk, I thought briefly that the foot of a prehistoric elephant might decide to stomp me flat at any moment.
We walked down the beach and had a rest at a resort whose grounds include a historical marker on the spot where German authorities hanged the leaders of a rebellion. Creepy. Wandering around near some more rotten husks of German imperialism, we realized that we'd seen just about everything on the map in Bagamoyo, and if we didn't get out of the sun soon, we'd be seeing red when we looked at our skin. We went to the town's Internet cafe, but the power was off. In fact, the power was out all over Bagamoyo, so that when we stopped for a cold drink, we had to settle for something that had once been cold. We settled down and played cards for an hour or two, then braced ourselves for a really early night if the power wasn't restored soon.
Just as the sun's last rays were fading and we were preparing to retreat to our room, the lights flickered on. Yay! Several more hours of playing cards and reading in the dim light! Cierra fell asleep, and I stayed up until midnight finishing another book, "The Shipping News".
Rising early, we set out again for Dar, where we would catch a ferry to Zanzibar. Two more dalla-dalla rides, getting crushed by all of our baggage in our laps and faces, and then we were staggering around Dar with it all on our back. A quick trip to the bank for a cash refill, then off to the docks.
Like so many things here, the ticketing system is set up to make sure that tourists pay more. Fine. But the insanity doesn't stop there. For the privilege of handing over more money, we have to walk half a kilometer away to an unmarked office on the corner of No and Where, while Tanzanians can buy right there on the dock. This requires you to be led there by a company tout, who then tries to wheedle a tip out of you. I flat refused to pay anything to him. Here's a tip... you should move this office within sight of the pier. A man with rotten teeth sold us our tickets, calling me "dear", and getting US dollars out of us by offering the worst exchange rate in the history of mankind and then acting offended when I challenged it. "That's where it's at now," he says. "It fluctuates all the time!" Really, because when I walked by an exchange two minutes ago, I saw a very different number.
We had just enough time to go grocery shopping and get breakfast before boarding the ferry. Cierra's been talking about chocolate cake for days, and I saw a piece in the store and got it for a surprise dessert. The ferry was a 3 story catamaran getting loaded to the gills with people and giant improvised suitcases. We got in line and were squeezed aboard in due course. The staff inside were playing a game in which they directed all the muzungus up onto the roof and out of the VIP lounge that we'd been promised. Some just accepted it and sat down, but the inside was air conditioned, so we went back down and got ourselves a seat in the cool.
On-board entertainment consisted of a terrible dubbed soap opera called The Gardener's Daughter. Translated by a computer program, then dubbed by people with less personality. The whole thing was so bad you really couldn't shut it out, and it went on and on for 3 and a half hours. As soon as Zanzibar came into view, I was just about ready to throw my bag overboard and paddle it to shore.
