Dar es Salaam

2 days in Dar es Salaam. I bought my plane ticket at the last minute on Friday night for the 7:40 a.m. flight the next morning. I read about the city in my guidebook, but only had a couple of sites flagged as ones I really wanted to see. I was mostly going to explore, to experience an African city. After arriving, adjusting to the extreme heat and humidity, and finding a suitably inexpensive hotel, I was ready to see the city. The hotel was clean and basic and in a completely non-touristy area (although I would soon discover that pretty much all of downtown Dar is a non-touristy area). I then paid the taxi-driver, John, who had taken me from the airport, and who was waiting in the lobby of the hotel.

I paid him the agreed fair, and said goodbye, and he asked me if I wanted to hire him for the day. I said no, that I was fine, that I just wanted to walk around the city. He said he would take me to The Slipway, and the Mwenge Craft Market - both local tourist markets mentioned in my guidebook, but both a fair bit out of the city centre, and accordingly, places that I didn't anticipate visiting. I again said thanks, but no thanks. John, though, was unrelenting. He said "Okay, but its not safe for white people. Let me give you an example. I once dropped off a white traveler at his hotel. The next day, when I came to get him, he had a bandaged forehead. He had been robbed by thieves." Standing there, wide-eyed, as John continued his story, I saw nothing but similarities between myself and this unlucky traveler: he was only in Dar for one night (I was only in Dar for one night), he was white (I am white), he had his cash stolen (I had cash), he had his passport stolen (I had a passport), and most importantly, he had just wanted to walk around and explore the city (precisely what I had planned for the day). John finished up with a great sales-line, telling me: "sometimes people try to save money, but it can be riskier to do this." And that is how he convinced me that his services were indispensable if I wanted a safe trip to Dar.

I soon regretted that I would be stuck with him for the day. Don't get me wrong, he was an extremely friendly guy, but he was too much. Our first stop was the Tanzania National Museum, the home of australopithecus boisei, a human/monkey skull found in Olduvai Gorge in Tanzania that dated back 1.75 million years. Despite John's complete lack of credentials or, it turned out, knowledge, he followed me closely around the museum, providing an amusing, albeit useless one- or two-word commentary on the artifacts: "stuffed lion," "old skulls," and so forth.

We next drove off to the Slipway and Mwenge Craft Market, which were nice, but dime-a-dozen Tanzanian tourist shops, full with the same masks and carvings as I saw in Arusha and Zanzibar. However, getting to these places allowed me to see two of the things Dar es Salaam is best known for: traffic, and poverty.

Every road, it seemed, was crammed with buses and cars and trucks and carts. John and I crept along in his car, slowly, as motorcycles weaved past, and dozens and dozens of teenage boys walked down the middle lane of the road, hawking everything from gum to cigarettes to electrified bug zappers shaped as tennis rackets to knives to roller skates, to cars whose drivers were forced by the heat to keep their windows open. I hadn't noticed during our drive from the airport, but John was a horrible driver. He weaved impatiently in and out of lanes and over and around curbs, honking and muttering in Swahili under his breath when he was a little annoyed, and honking and sticking his head out the window and shouting when he was truly upset. He, and his awful driving, in turn, generated more than his fair share of angry shouts directed our way.

On the way back from Mwenge, we took a bit of a detour through one of the poorer sections of the city. It was unsettling. While I had seen a fair bit of poverty around Arusha, this was much more urban and much more crowded. We passed hundreds upon hundreds of shanties, largely made of fastened together rusted sheets of corrugated tin. Approx. 70 percent of the city lives without electricity, a good deal I imagine in these shanty towns. Around the shanties there were occasionally small streams or rivers that you could see were just filled with garbage and sewage; their banks were covered with trash, and they carried a steady stream of junk out to the Indian Ocean. The extreme heat only made the stench worse.

The reason for this detour through the city, it turned out, was John. We arrived in an area of Dar filled with auto garages, auto parts stores, and shops with tire rims exploding onto the sidewalks. John took a sudden vere, double parked, and said he had to pick something up. He then jumped out of the car, and darted across the street to a Toyota part shop, leaving me alone and double parked. After 15 or 20 minutes, he ran back across the road and we continued back to the city centre, me somewhat annoyed, but simultaneously glad to no longer be stranded in an abandoned double-parked car somewhere in the middle of Dar es Salaam.

As the day wound-down, it had started to rain, and I was famished. I asked John to take me to a restaurant recommended by my guidebook. We arrived, and being the clinger he was, John took me into the restaurant, demanding to the hostess I be seated. I was worried he wanted me to ask him to join me (the last thing I wanted, having already spent what I felt was too much time with him), so I curtly thanked him, and told him I would meet him outside when I was done. After about a half an hour, I had ordered, and was relaxing with a cold Fanta, when I looked up and saw John wandering around the restaurant. I assumed he was looking to make sure I hadn't bailed on the tab, so I raised my hand and waived him over. Big mistake. He came over, and asked where my food was. I explained I had ordered, and was waiting for my food. Before I knew it he had flagged over two waitresses, and, loudly and embarrassingly, was scolding them in Swahili for my food not having been prepared yet. In intervals he would break into English, perhaps for my benefit, which allowed me to pick up tiny snippets of conversation like: “He has been waiting for one hour!” and “This is too long!” Suddenly he stopped, gave me a serious look and said matter-of-factly: “Dan, come on, we’re leaving, we’re going to Steers. This wait is too long.” Steers was a local fast food restaurant next door. I was somewhat confused at first, and explained that in fact the wait hadn’t been that long, that I’d only been in the restaurant for half an hour, and that I’d taken a long time with the menu (all of which was true), but all to no effect. He continued to yell at the waitresses in Swahili, as I listened (catching the occasional reference to Steers), mortified but somewhat amused. When John finally calmed down, I told him I was fine and would meet him outside when I was done, and he, somewhat reluctantly, left. The waitresses and I then spent the next two minutes apologizing profusely to each other – them for the food (which, I insist hadn’t taken that long), and me for John, my clingy, over-protective, and slightly crazy taxi driver.

My first day in Dar es Salaam not being particularly enjoyable or (in a positive way) memorable, I was determined to make up for it before my 1:30 flight the next afternoon. Risk of being robbed or not, I was going out to wander around the city. I awoke early to a beautiful sunrise over Dar’s harbour, and headed out across the city centre to Kilimanjaro Kempinski, one of Dar es Salaam’s two five star hotels, for breakfast. The hotel was stunning, filled with white marble and black ebony wood. It was also a confusing contrast to the incredible poverty I had seen the previous day. The breakfast, though, was unbelievable – one of the best meals I have had in Africa. I ate, and ate: a fresh omelet, bacon, potato pancakes, Swahili chapatis (a thin pancake filled with a little bit of spice), and fresh fruit, all washed down with many glasses of freshly squeezed passion fruit juice and French-pressed coffee. I spent the rest of the morning digesting while wandering around the city. Walking is an amazingly better way to see a city than driving, and I quickly found that Dar had a sort of run-down charm. It isn't very good looking, and there isn’t really touristy things to do (or rather, there are the ones I did the previous day which were fine, but not particularly memorable), but the city has a definite character. Multiculturalism is on full display here, as the city blocks would alternate between mosques and people in Muslim robes, with the daily calls to prayer played from loudspeakers, to small pockets of Indian communities, to churches, colourful kangas and football jerseys. I'm not sure I'd be in a huge hurry to return, but I still enjoyed the trip, and for the next few days had many stories to tell Pascal about my horrible driver from Dar.

Daladalas and Ngaramtoni Market

Having had such a great day with Faraja the previous day, I enlisted his guide services again. He promised to take me out to Ngaramtoni Market, a Masaai market about 20km outside of the city (very distinct from "the Masaai Market" of Arusha tourist fame). This market only happens on Sundays, and Masaai from all around bring their livestock here to sell them. Faraja said that some walk, shepherding their goats, sheep, or cows, for up to two days to get them to Ngaramtoni Market.

The trip started with a half hour ride aboard a daladala. This was so fun and exciting it could have been the main purpose of the trip, and I would have been happy. Daladalas are large vans - essentially buses. However, they are privately run, and anyone who has the money for one, and doesn't mind driving around all day, can start their own daladala. The owners decorate them how they see fit, covering them with decals and stickers - although there seems to be three reoccurring themes of daladala decoration: football teams (Arsenal, Manchester United), American rappers (Tupac, Rick Ross), or religion (Jesus loves you).

There is a real chaos to daladalas. First of all, there are no bus stops. The daladalas just drive along the highways. If you want one, you flag it over. What this means is a constant shift between full-throttle foot on the gas speeding, and sudden halting stops as the daladala pulls over to pick someone up. Daladalas are run by two people: in addition to the driver, there is also a guy who sits in the first row of seats, on the same side as the curb, generally leaning out of the daladala to his waste. If you want in, you flag this guy down. He slams his hand onto the side of the van twice, and the driver throws on the breaks. Once you are aboard, or at least mostly aboard, he again slaps the side of the van, often while only holding on from the outside, and scrambles back in, shutting the door.

There are also no schedules, and there are only marginally what I would call 'routes.' The daladalas go back and forth between the bus station (which is really just a giant parking lot in the middle of Arusha) and a certain place, the name of which will be printed in small letters on the hood of the van. And, of course, daladalas are packed! They are jammed full of people. The vans probably hold 10 people, but they don't let this constrain them. People squish together, climb over each other, sit contorted and sideways. Men, women, children, luggage, baggage, baskets. I think I actually saw a kid holding a chicken get onto one of the daladalas I was on. They are crazy. Despite this, they are actually a pretty good, cheap, and fun way to get around - there are so many of them operating that you never need to wait too long for one to come along. At 300 Tsh, they are a bargain.

After getting off the daladala, Faraja and I took an hour or so hike down a road to Kilimonto Crater. Every five minutes we passed a group of Masaai hearding their goats or cows in the opposite direction, towards the market. The crater itself used to be a volcano that, fifty or so years ago, blew it self up. It is now a giant pit now that local herders take their cattle to to graze in. The herders (a group of boys ranging from 5 to 15 years old) hang out during the day on the crater rim, playing soccer on a scenic little pitch.

Faraja and I then hoped aboard another daladala, and headed back towards Ngaramtoni Market. The Market has two halves. The first is similar to the Arusha Central Market, where people come and set up stalls, or put down blankets on a patch of ground, and sell anything and everything - Masaai blankets, fruit, dried corn, not-dried corn, bananas, kitenges, kangas, Masaai sandals made from old motorcycle tires, used clothing, and everything else you can imagine. Chaos then ensues, as thousands of people stroll through with bikes, carts, bags, and even cars. The colours of the kangas and Masaai blankets and fruit make it a beautiful site.

On the opposite side of the highway is the part of Ngaramtoni Market where Masaai come to sell their livestock. The way it works is basically this: you bring your goats or cows or whatever, and stand next to them in this large dusty field. The people who buy the livestock then stroll around, and if they like what they see, negotiate a deal. It is a little terrifying, particularly in the part where all of the cows are just mulling around - some of the bulls are giant, and when they look at you, and you see their horns, or when they make a loud and angry-sounding sound, it is hard not to picture some sort of stampede or skewering.

I had a late lunch at a roadside restaurant that was another authentic local culinary experience. They didn't have a menu, or speak English, but Faraja explained that they have either 'beef with rice' or 'chicken with rice.' I opted for chicken with rice. It was good (particularly the carrots - there is something about the carrots here - they are so delicious), but again very different from the usual tourist food. Pascal told me once that there is a difference between 'city chicken' and 'village chicken.' I was a little confused at the time, and ended up coming to the conclusion that city chicken was what tourists eat (village chicken, he swears, is better). What I had here, I'm pretty sure, was village chicken, and didn't really taste like the chicken I'm used to.

It was another great day of Cultural Tourism and another one that felt really authentic. I didn't see another Mzungu (white tourist) anywhere the whole day - which made the whole thing that much more special. I was sad to part ways with Faraja at the end of the day, as I had essentially spent the whole weekend with him, but I will recommend him highly to anyone else I meet who is looking for a bit more off-the-beaten-path trip around Arusha.

Cultural Tourism

You see a lot of references to Cultural Tourism here in Arusha. Though I wasn't exactly sure what it was, I was told it was great (and cheap), which prompted me to head to the Tanzanian Tourist Board (TTB) office to try to get more information. I soon found myself in front of a small wall full of one page flyers, each from a different village around Arusha. Cultural tourism was the chance to go to one of these villages for the day, interact with local people, and see how they live. The flyers were very similar, generally beginning with bullet point lists of what you could expect (visit a Masaai Boma, tours of banana and coffee plantations, glimpse of local daily life...one even promised the chance to 'meet a man with 9 wives and 64 children'!). I, somewhat randomly, picked Kioga, a small village located on the foothills of Mount Meru, the giant mountain that towers over Arusha.

My tour guide for the day was Faraja, who does both Cultural Tourism tours for the TTB, and in the high season, is a safari guide. It just so happens that he was from Kioga, which made the day a little more authentic - not only did he know practically everyone in the village, but I got to meet his wife, and his three year old daughter, Charlotte.

The residents of Kioga are Masaai, although Faraja explained that they aren't as traditional as some Masaai - very few wore the traditional masaai robes, or had the streched-out ear lobes. The locals are all farmers, growing onions, cauliflower, potatoes, bananas, and cabbages. It is spread out over 5 square kilometers of hills, and is stunningly beautiful. The villagers also had a local bee hive for honey - African killer bees. The hive was a hollowed-out log suspended from a tall tree, and Faraja explained that in order to get honey out periodically, they would start a fire underneath, on which they would throw a certain type of mushroom. The smoke from this fire puts the bees to sleep, and allows them to lower the hive and extract the honey.

Most of the village doesn't have power. It is available, Faraja explained, but too expensive for most people. Even Faraja doesn't have power in his home. However, the few houses that do tend to share - at one point we dropped off his cell phone at a friend's house, and picked it up again later, fully charged.

The local children were great. The general response to seeing me was curiosity - which tended to be shown either by: (a) frantically running away to find a safe place to hide and watch me, or (b) getting incredibly (Christmas-morning) excited and running towards me, stopping a few feet away, looking up, and staring. None of them spoke English, but for some reason all of the children in the village knew the phrase "good morning." Throughout the day I was continually met with loud shouts of "good morning", both as a greeting, as a goodbye, and just because. The kids were adorable.

The Masaai boma that I was allowed to tour (it was an actual home and not just something they showed cultural tourists like me) belonged to a local man with six wives (was I disappointed it was only 6, and not 9?...surprisingly not). One of the wives, along with 10 or so children, were there when I arrived, the wife preparing vegetables for a later meal. The family had 3 huts, one of which was just for the husband, and the other two are shared by the wives and children. They were incredibly friendly, and the kids were super excited to see me - even fighting amongst each other to determine who got to hold my hands and walk around with me (I have never been so popular!). The boma was tiny, and stunk strongly of smoke. They have fires in them at night, but to keep the rain out there is no chimney, so the whole thing is smokey and charred. Faraja also explained that at night they bring their cows into the house to keep them warm (into a little fenced off section of the boma). It was small, and there wasn't anything in it besides the dirt floor, a chicken, and a couple of stools, and it is difficult to imagine so many people (or anyone, for that matter) living in there.

At lunch, between my guided explorations of Kioga, I was treated to a homemade local lunch of rice and a beef-carrot stew. It was actually quite good, but very authentic, and certainly different from the type of food you get at restaurants here (at least the restaurants that ex-pats tend to go to). Faraja also spoke a little bit about Cultural Tourism and how it brought much-needed money into the community. Kioga, he explained, was using the money from the Cultural Tourism program to build a medical clinic. It was a great day.

The Masaai Market

The Masaai Market is the ultimate tourist market is Arusha, quite distinct from the very authentic Central Market. It is fairly small, but densely packed with little stalls, each selling the exact same African kitsch: generic African jewelry, generic African masks, generic African carvings, and a lot of local art that largely consists of cartoony safari animals, or cartoony Masaai. It is horrible in its touristy-ness. That being said, a lot of the stuff is actually quite nice. If you took it away from its setting, away from the hundreds of identical objects that line the walls of these shops, its not hard to imagine most of it on sale at Pottery Barn or Pier 1. The biggest problem, though, is that as you walk from booth to booth, each with its own overly-friendly salesperson begging you to come in ‘just to look,’ it looses all of its fun. A third of the way through the market you have already seen everything (many times), encountered way too many friendly-but-pushy salespeople, and are exhausted.

Most of the carvings are made of ebony, and at a few of the booths you can actually see people carving it. It is an extremely heavy wood, the outside of which looks like any other tree. But about an inch or so into the trunk, the wood turns a deep black. This is the part of the tree that makes the beautiful carvings that fill the Masaai Market.

According to Pascal, most of people working in the stalls at the Masaai Market are not Masaai. However, in front of the stalls, there are large groups of Masaai women beading jewelry, bowls, and other little containers. But this is it – the rest are just regular Tanzanian shopkeepers.

There are no price tags in Arusha. You need to ask, and bargain, for everything. I’ve been told that roughly 40% of an asking price is fair. This formula seems to work in Arusha (I bought a beautiful set of ebony candlesticks 10,000 shillings – original price: 25,000 shillings). I tried the same formula in Zanzibar, and found that it didn’t work, and was even laughed out of a few places. I’m not sure if the mark-up is just that much bigger here in Arusha, or if there are simply so many tourists in Zanzibar that they don’t need to bargain so heavily.

I’m not a person who generally can, or that likes to, bargain for things. In my first attempt at bargaining in Africa, I picked out something and was told it cost 10,000 shillings. I told the woman I would give her 8,000 shillings. She said okay, but sadly, and I quickly realized that it was only a dollar or so. I then reverse-bargained, and said I would pay 10,000 (I know – but I’m supposed to be a lawyer…).

What I’ve found, though, is the pushier the salesperson, the more I don’t mind haggling. The strategy I have adopted, which I actually think is quite good, is to ask how much, then name the price I’m willing to pay, and if they don’t accept, just walk out of the shop. You can always go back, and right away you can tell how serious they were – if they run after you (which happens frequently), success! If they don’t, you were probably asking for too much of a discount, and you can re-evaluate your offer outside of the store. Win-win.

Soda Pop

Tanzania is light years ahead of Canada in its soda pop. First, it is all made with sugar cane and not corn syrup, which means even basics like Coca-Cola taste better here. Second, most places don't have diet pops - which pretty much gives you a free pass at having the full-sugar kind every time. Third, pop comes in glass bottles which (a) makes it taste better; and (b) makes it seem fancier and a definitely less childish.

And the flavours - sooo good. Here are the highlights:

Bitter Lemon - a lemon soda that is not sweet at all, but highly refreshing, and a great accompaniment to a meal. I go with Bitter Lemon when I don't really feel like pop, but want something beyond water.

Stoney Tangawizi - a ginger beer that, like Bitter Lemon, isn't too sweet, and goes great with food. My current pop-of-choice.

Orange Fanta - similar to orange cola in Canada, but better. Nothing better than sitting out in the sun on a hot day and sipping a cool Fanta.

Passion Fanta - passion fruit flavoured Fanta. See picture above. Delicious.

The bad side, which I guess I should mention, is that pop is so plentiful and cheap here (often cheaper than water), that people probably drink way too much of it. The ratio of soda pop to dentists, actually, is way off. I may be coming back with a mouth full of cavities.

Zanzi - day 3

Last day in Zanzibar! The plan was to go out to Changuu Island for a day on the beach (and to see the giant tortoises, who are apparently the second biggest in the world after the tortoises at the Galapagos Islands). But, it was windy, and rainy, and there was still so much to see in Stonetown that I decided to spend the day wandering around and looking in shops. Stonetown has some of the most amazing wood and antique shops (or, as they call them, curio shops), selling chests with secret compartments, boxes, frames, and woodcarvings, all made from African Teak (the Abeid Curio Shop is particularly great). The shops also have great old antiques - from old teapots to arabic scales to nautical clocks. I didn't end up getting anything from these places (mostly because of the hassle it would have been to get anything big home), but they were a lot of fun just to browse.

One of the first stops of the day was to a place called Jaws Corner, which is a small open space at the intersection of 4 or 5 narrow streets. The locals sit around around the outside of the space, loitering, and not really doing much. At Jaws Corner, though, was a great little coffee baraza - where tiny espresso-size cups of fresh coffee are sold for 50 shillings each (about 3 cents, by my math). The coffee was fresh, and strong, and delicious. It was perhaps the least touristy thing I did on the trip to Zanzi - just sitting down with a hot little cup of coffee, and loitering for a bit, not a tourist in site.

While wandering, I stumbled upon this amazing photo shop - Capital Art Studio, a tiny studio, the walls of which were covered in black and white photos. Talking to the owner, he explained that his father, a photographer, came to Zanzibar from India in the 1920s, and opened the shop, and that he had taken it over from his father and continued to take photographs of the island and its important events. All of the photos in the shop were taken by him or his father, and were of Zanzibar and Stonetown. The photos were beautiful - black and white landscapes, shots of old wooden boats, portraits of locals, or pictures of the narrow alleyways of Stonetown. He sells reproductions of the photos - and what started out as a plan for me to get a couple eventually ended up in an hour of browsing through stacks of photos, some difficult decision-making, and going home with six.

The (somewhat entertaining) downside of Zanzibar were the "Beach Boys" that the wise cab driver, on the way into Stonetown, said to avoid. Stonetown really isn't big, so I kept running into these guys throughout the day - and they would always come up and ask questions about where I was from, if I was looking for anything, if I wanted to buy a cd (they would sing you the most popular track from the cd they had), or if I wanted to buy a set of spices. Don't get me wrong, they were actually quite friendly - but their gimmick was basically that they would follow you around as an impromptu tour guide, waiting outside of whatever shop or restaurant you would go into, and then continue to follow until they got paid. You can say 'no thanks' all you want, but with some this doesn't work, and they would continue to walk around with you. The strategy I ended up adopting, to various degrees of success, was that if I really couldn't get rid of them I would just to give them 1,000 shillings to go away. These guys might not actually be the "Beach Boys" the cab driver spoke of (for the most part they were harmless - and always got a bit of a laugh when I would come out of a store a half an hour later and they would just be standing there waiting for you), but I am choosing to call them that. The worst one was the last one of the day, who actually demanded 10,000 shillings (ha!) and got somewhat upset after I gave him a thousand to go away. I told him I would happily take the 1,000 shillings back after he said he "didn't need it" - but it turned out he wanted to keep it after all.

Zanzi - day 2

For my second day in Zanzibar, the owner of the hotel where I was staying agreed to set up a driver to take me through the town, the site of Africa's last slave market, out on a spice tour, and to the "slave cave" where, after the Stonetown slave market had been shut down (it was the last slave market in Africa to be shut down), black market slaves were taken from inland to the coast, in order to avoid patrolling British ships.

The old Stonetown slave market was harrowing, and going down to the cells where slaves were kept before they were sold was horrible. They were kept in the sells for 2 days after they arrived, and apparently many suffocated because they were so jammed in, and the couple of slits in the stone that let air in were so narrow. After this they were tied to a post and whipped in front of buyers to show how strong they were. The memorial sculpture there now is quite powerful (the chain included in which is an original chain used when the market operated).

A Zanzibar spice tour is a trip around a path at a spice plantation, while a guide explains the various spices. The planation seemed more like jungle than a farm, though, as none of the plants seemed to be too organized or separate from each other. In addition to the main guide there was another (bare-footed) guide on the tour who would help to cut off pieces of bark or leaves so we could smell and/or taste them. At one point, it became clear that this second guide was going to climb up a coconut tree to get me a coconut. I was very hesitant, and could only think about how bad I would feel if he fell - but this seemed to be part of his job, and I was assured that it was safe. To climb a coconut tree, he took a piece of twine rope shaped like a figure-eight, put one foot in each of the holes, and used this to help grip his feet on the trunk of the tree. He pulled himself up with his arms, brought his legs up, gripping the rope, and then extended his legs down, and began again. It was surprisingly effective, and within 30 seconds he had climbed the 25 foot palm tree, and began to throw down fresh coconuts. It was the best coconut I have ever had. The spice tour finished - of course - at a little hut where packaged spices were sold (for not as cheaply as you might think). Although they were all supposed to be from the plantation I toured, in hindsight I would say there is probably a 50% chance that they were just from the grocery store (it is probably easier to run a small piece of land as a spice tour and to sell dried spices from elsewhere than to actually grow, pick, dry, process, and package them yourself - and, come to think of it, the only people I saw on this plantation were the two guides I had and the guy manning the sales booth...hmmmm).

The slave cave I went to wasn't exactly what I thought it would be. I was under the impression that I was going to the end of the cave, near the ocean, where there are holding cells and a memorial. Instead, I was taken to the mouth of the cave, and told that it was a 3km (!) trip to the end of the cave. I hesitantly went along, with a small flashlight and a guide (a local boy who had just been hanging out in the shade at the cave entrance with a couple of flashlights). It took about one minute for the cave to turn from a giant cavern into a narrow, uneven pathway filled with bats and giant milipedes for me to decide that a 3km hike probably wasn't the most enjoyable (or safest, for that matter) idea. I gave him a small tip and went on my way.

From here, the driver took me to a nearby restaurant (at Mangapwani beach) run by Stonetown's Serena Inn (the most luxurious hotel in Stonetown). The food here was delicious - I had a vegetable pasta with a coconut sauce with a little pilipili (hot peppers), and relaxed under the thatched roof, looking out onto the beach, with a cold Fanta (my current African soda-of-choice), followed by a swim in the amazingly clear, and warm, Indian ocean. Doesn't get much better than this.