From the Sultanate of Zanzibar to Dublin

A Finnish fellow guest arranges a lift to Stone Town in a shared taxi. In no time and in comfort, we reach the busy city and dodge our last dalla-dalla ride.
A city with the air of a village, Stone Town is the home of nearly one million people. Inhabitants that are Tanzanian citizens yet they proudly identify themselves as Zanzibarian.
And it is just that the famous Spice Island seems to work as a different entity in this world, taking the persona of a historically powerful domain within the Sultanate of Oman.
The influence of Arabian magic can be seen everywhere. From the minarets thats draw sleek lines of turquoise tiles across a clear sky, to the intoxicatingly aroma of saffron, clove and cinnamon on the busy street markets.

 

Upon arrival, Stone Town makes no sense. A cluster of once beautiful palatial homes adorned with overhanging balconies craftily worked in steel now forsaken to the Indian Ocean rust, of once whitewashed walls covered in musk running from the broken roofs. 
At street level, locals in colourful abayahs shelter from the sun in surprising comfort and share wobbly tables on the narrow footpaths while drinking coffee and playing backgammon. Street markets sell fresh fish next to travel agent stalls, and once the curtain of foul smell is trespassed, I purchase a plane ticket out of the island.

As we sit down in a cafe and work on our travel notes, the Indian community celebrate the Festival of Colours in a moving parade. We hastily pay and follow them all the way to the beach, where the festival dies along with the day in one of the most famous sunsets in the world.

 
We sit on the warm sand and sip on out Stoney Tangawizis when the sun succumbs, the power is cut and the night market comes to live.

Smoke inundates the stale air of the night with the aroma of charred squid and chocolate pancakes. Forodhani Park crowds with locals and tourists alike in a nightly gala of ‘looking and not eating’, a gala of oil lamps and prawns.
Food poisoned safe, I settle with falafel and a banana-and-Nutella Zanzibarian pizza, a thin pastry rolled into balls, stretched and folded with skills passed along generations across the Indian Ocean.
 

The end of the trip is nigh. The bags are packed and the goodbyes are at the ready. In the morning, I watch the ferry depart and sail across a horizon of blue waves. At the pier, once again tracing my own steps and returning to the cafe for a cheese chapatti and cafe solo.
I return to the food market at night and befriend two Polish girls.
 
– ‘Hi! You traveling alone?’
-‘Kinda, well, I am now.’
-‘Nice to meet you, where did you start your trip?’
– ‘Kenya, then onto Uganda, Rwanda and now here. I depart tomorrow.’
-‘Oh, we are heading to Rwanda next. Tell us about it.’

And so, to set the farewell mood and once and for all seal a vault full of memories, we spend the night remembering, laughing and drinking beer. We exchange contact details and promise to visit each other in Europe. We part our ways into the exciting beginning of one trip, and the melancholic end of another.

The next day, I wake up in a bed of white sheets and sweat. I walk through the narrow streets of the town before the locals do, contemplating the rusty balconies, feeling the smell of freshly baked flatbread and peaking through windows of blue shutters, the children wearing white school uniforms around an open fire of food.
I finally understand that Stone Town is a place to be treasured in silence, for in its calm, history transpires, and in its decay, beauty colourfully manifests.

 
 
The heat beams through the morning rush and Stone Town once again becomes unbearable. I fasten the straps on my backpack and take a bus to the airport in an attempt to find an oasis of comfort, air conditioned and free of hagglers.
For four hours, the check in area is a revolving door of overly tanned Brits on their way to Gatwick, rich Omani families arriving from Muscat and backpackers sorting their way out to Johannesburg.

My flight leaves in the late afternoon and the flight on the little aircraft is as light and smooth as the sea beneath us. We fly over the vastness of Dar es Salaam and U-turn to line up with the runway. The wind bends the wings of one of the last flights of the day in chilling ripples of gust and, battling the turbulence, we touchdown at the international airport.
 
 
The fresh night sets in through the old-fashioned open ceiling terminal. I check in and avoid paying a tourist tax already paid on the plane ticket. At the Duty Free, wooden giraffes are sold next to pack of cigarettes under misty neon lights.
The plane battles the wind and awkwardly lands for its quick turnaround.
Thirty passengers and I board the large aircraft hopping in between Dar es Salaam and Nairobi. At Julius Nyerere Airport, we pack a full house and late at night, when Mount Kenya watches over a starry Great Rift Valley, we fly over the Equator towards Zurich.

A breakfast box is handed by the cabin crew over the Balkans and upon final approach, we fly in circles over the Alps waiting for clearance to land.
I transfer onto a full flight to Dublin and, in between bad sleep and Swiss chocolate, I lay my head against the bulkhead in remembrance of one of the most extravagant trips of my lifetime, contempt with all the comfort zones and personal biases now broken by the sincere hearts of Africa.

 

I am questioned by the immigration officer upon arrival in Dublin and with that, I feel forced to focus and start again. Forced to find a new apartment, a new job and a new path in the country I decided to return to, the country I call home.

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