Leaving several would-be husbands behind, we set out to get to the eastern side of the island where we planned to do nothing but bask in the glorious blue of the Indian ocean under the Zanzibarian sun. First though, we had to actually get there. We had a vague set of directions from the owner of Upepo's, the beachside bungalow in Bwejuu where we had reserved three nights. We knew we had to take a dalla-dalla, a ubiquitous form of public transport 'round those parts, and that the trip should take about an hour, but that was nearly the extent of our knowledge. Around 4 PM, we ventured towards the market area where all the dalla-dallas converged in a teeming jumble of horns, livestock and shouting-enough to frighten any mzungu into taking a taxi. We were determined though, to have our dalla-dalla experience, and we figured it would be simple to find one marked "Bwejuu." Indeed, this ended up being the simplest task of the journey. The village name was not plainly marked, but we did manage to find some overly helpful gentleman who directed us to the correct vehicle. Now, you will remember from my previous post that the ride turned out to be a veritable deathtrap in and of itself. What I did not mention was that unbeknownst to us, we had been set squarely in the sights of a street "entrepreneur."
The gentleman in question, upon determining our destination, hopped in beside me on the bench seat and made himself comfortable for the duration of the ride, keeping up a steady stream of chatter. Despite his claim to speak English, I understood only snippets of his gibberish. To compound matters, his monotone mumble and the din of street noise made me feel like I was watching TV in a noisy room with the volume on mute. As the ride went on, I became increasingly perplexed. Why was he so intent on conversing? Where was he going? WHAT ON EARTH WAS HE ACTUALLY SAYING?(you can see my confusion above). I finally just tuned out. Rude? Maybe, but I didn't know what else to do, and I had other things on my mind by then. You see, we had been on the dalla-dalla for well over an hour by that point and it did not appear as if we were any closer to any picturesque beaches. Even more worrisome, it was nearly dark, infringing upon one of my cardinal rules of international backpacking: Always get to the next destination BEFORE dark! Things just get a little spookier, a little more suspect and potentially more dangerous after the light of day has vanished, particularly if you are not even sure where it is that you are headed, which we clearly were not. We did not have a phone number or a street address, and we were now the last people on the transport. What we did have was an impatient driver, a persistent mumbler (heretofore called "Mumbles"), a map, and an email printout bearing the dubious directive "Find the white flag after Evergreen and proceed down the sand path." Whaaaaaat?
Our driver stops at a deserted intersection, and his buddy comes to the back to try to figure out what to do with us. According to our map,we knew we were not even in the correct village yet. Theoretically, it was the next village on the highway, but our driver wanted to let us out right there. Um. NO. We are not getting out a deserted intersection in the dark. Period! That is when he decided that we would have to pay him more money to take us to Bwejuu. Since we had already paid thrice what the locals did and we weren't even there yet, we emphatically declared that he would not be getting more cash from us. I will admit, I got a tiny bit sassy with him. Upon realization that we and our luggage would not be departing anytime soon, he begrudgingly threw the truck in gear and rattled on down the road. Then we saw it--a sign for Bwejuu!! Praise be to the heavens. Something was off though, we were in the actual Bwejuu village, but seemingly far from any beach paradise. To further complicate matters, nobody had ever even heard of the place we were staying! It was at that point that I began envisioning us being dropped in the village and beseeching some kind Zanzibarian to let us crash on their floor until morning. Mumbles proved slightly helpful here as he valiantly attempted to understand what we were saying and relay it to the driver, albeit resulting in complete bafflement for all involved parties. To add to this hot mess, we passed by two guys standing on a corner eating something out of a bowl. One of them, upon seeing us hunkered down in the dalla-dalla, shrieked excitedly, threw the bowl to his friend and hopped in the back of the truck with us and barraged us with questions...in English! Hooray for English at this point in the journey. We told him where we were going and praise be to the heavens once more--he informed us that he worked there, spouting the name of the owner and his work schedule. Sweet relief.
A few bumpy turns later, we found ourselves deposited at the gates of Upepo Beach Bungalows, our home for the next three days. Saying our goodbyes rather hastily, we heaved ourselves out of the back, grabbed our luggage and trooped through the front gate-flanked by Mumbles and the guy with the bowl. Of course. I figured at this point that this episode was not going to end easily, but without a clear sign of what their intent was, we acted as if they were invisible. We found Fatma, the Swahili-speaking Canadian owner, and practically wept at her feet, so happy were we to have arrived in one piece. She showed us to our room and then inquired about our entourage. We truthfully replied that we did not know what they wanted. As it turned out, big shocker here, they wanted money for the "extra" ride, and Mumbles declared himself our tour guide from Stonetown and that he needed payment for his services. ?????!!!! Oh, and the other guy? Fatma had never seen him in her life, negating his claim that he worked for her. He wanted money as well, although I am not sure for what. What followed was a barrage of heated Swahili, with us watching the exchange like it was a game of ping-pong. Fatma repeated to us in English their demand and reasoning for more money. It appeared we were beaten, since they had followed us to the very door of our bungalow. At this point, she tells us to go inside, lock the door, and not to open it for any reason. Now, we are not only annoyed, but a tiny bit scared as well. Fatma went off to get her husband, leaving the two swindlers at our front door, repeatedly knocking and requesting that we pay them. Finally, Shareef, Fatma's husband raps at our door with a command to open up. "Do you know these guys?" he demands? No! And with that, Shareef singlehandedly ended the entire debaucle with a verbal assault and what I can only assume were threats on their lives. The rumble of the truck disappeared and we considered their fate-Mumbles had come all the way from Stonetown on the last dalla-dalla of the day, hoping to make a few bucks. There were no more tranports for the night. He would be stuck. I assume the other guy went back to his dinner, and the driver was only three times richer off of us, rather than six. We could finally eat, sleep, rest, and breathe in peace. I sprang for the shower....only to realize there was no electricity. It wasn't just "out" either, there just wasn't any to be had! Clearly, with scorching temperatures by day, and sweltering ones by night, we would not be resting peacefully. But at least we were without an entourage, and we were where we were supposed to be! (Part 3 will wrap this saga up soon).
After our dramatic arrival, which caused no shortage of mayhem in our otherwise idyllic surroundings, it was time to get down to the business of relaxing on an exotic island. First order of business: find out if the beaches are as beautiful as everyone says they are. Since we arrived in the dark and with other more pressing issues at hand, a cursory glance was all we could muster. 'Twas quite lovely to dine oceanside that first night though, listening to the roar and crash of the surf, feeling the island breeze gently knead our stress levels down to a wee bit of nothing.
