The ferry ride to Zanzibar was supposed to be two and a half hours. We knew that it would likely take up to four hours. Five hours into the trip, someone told us that it was going to take six hours. Another hour later, the sun had set and we thought we could see the island, but it was around 8pm - eight hours later - that we were finally pulling up to the dock.
Before the ship had even fully docked, we saw dozens of touts (hustlers who prey on tourists), possibly upwards of fifty of them, crowding the pier, some jumping over the railing to get on the boat and get to us. There were only maybe 15 or 20 tourists on board, so we were outnumbered nearly 3-to-1.
Luckily, we had made friends with an Aussie couple (Kerri and Dave), another Aussie ex-pat named Sam and Sean, who was from South Korea. We felt safety (and negotiating power) came in numbers, so the seven of us locked our bags, strapped them on, and started out into the teeming masses together.
Kerri and Dave had made a Zanzibari friend while on the ferry and he offered to walk us to the hotel we wanted to go to. Also, by having him with us, the touts felt we were “spoken for” and most of them (but not all) left us alone. But by the time we made it through immigration (Zanzibar technically isn’t its own country - its part of Tanzania - but you still have to go through immigration…), it was pitch black outside, and we were nervous to walk. An immigration official also advised us to take a cab, so we found a cab driver with a minivan that could take all of us.
The cab driver told us that the hotel we wanted to go to wasn’t as nice as another one he recommended, but we were skeptical. Often drivers get kickbacks from hotel owners, so they’ll tell stories about hotels being closed, burned down or dirty to convince tourists to go to a hotel where they get a commission. We insisted on being taken to the hotel we had picked out of the Lonely Planet.
Stone Town, the capital of Zanzibar, mostly consists of hundreds of small alleyways, big enough for two people to walk down but too small for cars to squeeze through. The driver pulled up as close as he could get and then pointed us down the alley to the hotel. Dave, Sam and I all got out of the car to go see if we could negotiate a cheaper rate for the hotel room since there would be seven people staying there.
Our negotiating tactics failed. (Lauren and I have been frustrated with bartering in Africa. In Southeast Asia and India, hotel owners, cabbies and merchants would all quote us often ridiculously high prices. For example, cabbies would say a 10-block cab ride, which we knew should cost about $1, cost $3. But we would barter with them and get them down to $1 or $1.50. If they wouldn’t go down to the fair price, we’d start walking away and they would stop us and agree to our price. But in Africa, many of the people we have interacted with wouldn’t negotiate. Taxi drivers would quote us twice or three-times the price that we should be paying and would not go down. When we threatened to walk away, they would just let us go, rather than take us for the fare that they’d normally charge.) With the hotel, the owner decided that he would rather watch $63 walk out of the door than drop his rates by $1/person.
Dave, Sam and I left and wandered around the corner to another hotel. That hotel was also too expensive. A guy there said he’d take us to another hotel that was cheaper, so we followed him down another alleyway. That hotel was too expensive as well, and so the guy told us he’d take us to another hotel.
By this time, I realized we had no idea where we were. The twisting and turning alleys were confusing during the day and impossible to navigate at night. I didn’t feel scared - I had two pretty big guys with me and while the streets were dark, it didn’t seem shady - but I knew Lauren had to be getting concerned.
When we arrived at the forth hotel, our cabbie was there waiting on us. He’d gone in search of us and this was the hotel he had recommended. It was also $10/night, more than we wanted to spend, but we decided it would do. The cab driver left to go grab the taxi with Marjona, Lauren, Kerri, and Sean waiting in it.
(Lauren: The cab driver came back and told us that they’d all found a place, and that he’d drive us to them. “Hmmm, that’s strange,” I thought. “I would have imagined Beth would come back and get me, since she’d know I’d be worried.” A similar look of concern passed over Kerri’s face. “That’s not like Dave,” she said. Marjona wondered aloud, “Why wouldn’t they have come back to tell us this themselves?” And then all of us to the cab driver, “Wait, where are our friends?” and “Why didn’t they come back with you?” and “How far is this place?” Divide and conquer, we were thinking. Now we’re going to be led down some dark ally and kidnapped. But no such thing happened - our traveler imaginations had run off course. We arrived to find the three wandering negotiators waiting outside of our hotel, Beth running into my arms saying, “Oh, you were worried! I knew you would be… but see! I’m fine!”)
Before he left, we arranged for the cab driver to take us to Kendwa, one of the northern beaches, the next day.
We spent the following morning wandering around Stone Town, seeing museums and getting lost in the alleys. At 1pm, we met up with the Aussies and got in the minibus to Kendwa. We were told we would be the only ones in the bus, but then we drove around picking up other tourists. When we finally got on our way (after many forceful demands from Kerri), we watched with mild concern as our cabbie gave a bribe to a police officer to let us through a traffic checkpoint.
When we got to Kendwa, we were in for more sticker shock. Sam already had booked a room, so it left the five of us (Marjona, Lauren, Kerri, Dave and I) to negotiate prices. The first place wouldn’t drop below $65 for a double. Next door, Lauren and Dave were able to negotiate putting all five of us in a triple room for $14/person.
Tired and hungry, we headed down to the restaurant near the beach. More sticker shock: the cheapest thing on the menu was $5 pizzas. Beers were nearly $2.
After pizzas and beer, we headed to the beach. All the hassle was worth it: the water was beautiful and clear and the beach was long and had perfect sand.
(Lauren: Dear God, we thought. We have died and gone to heaven. We wandered down to the beach, sifting through fine, soft, bright white sand, and found what Marjona and I thought was missing at Diani Beach in Kenya: lounge chairs and large umbrellas for shade. We also found bars and restaurants in front of all the hotels, offering the last two mandatory items: food and beer. We were all struck by the seemingly endless shades of blue that the water cast from the shoreline out to the horizon. We all went to get into this vast blue mosaic and discovered that it was the ideal temperature - not too cold, not too hot. Perfectly refreshing. There was hardly any seaweed, and there were few rocks.)
(I told Lauren that paragraph reads like a trashy romance novel. She says I don’t gush enough.)
Lauren dubbed the water “the fountain of youth,” since getting into it felt like all time, ware, tare and worry were washed away. We all agreed that we had finally found the perfect beach, and were content to stay for a while.
