Zanzibar's Still Got It...

Now I can visualise you, particularly, say, my brothers, throwing your heads back in hysterics but I felt like I was warranted a bit of a break after one month’s study in Bagamoyo. It’s quite hard-going speaking a language you aren’t really proficient in all day and I guess I felt a bit of relaxation might be nice as well as the chance to remove my earplugs. On top of this, Bagamoyo was a veritable hive of excitement in the run up to Zanzibar’s renowned Busara Music Festival as all the artists were getting the best examples of their work ready to sell and display. I was obviously not averse to going either.

I had thought I had my transport over in the bag. Getting to and across Dar to catch one of the speedboats seemed quite an exhausting, not to mention expensive, prospect so I thought I had organised to travel over by jahazi (dhow) with Mrisho, a local artist. It was not without its risks (it is prohibited for foreigners to do so from Dar) and as a night crossing it wasn’t likely to be comfortable. But I weighed it up; the winds were good and the right direction, it was cheap and simple (£4!) and I would be travelling with friends. But of course nothing goes to plan – the night I was supposed to leave it turned out many of the captains suddenly had concerns about taking foreigners and by the time we found one willing to take me the immigration office had closed, where you needed to sign some kind of life waiver. So, in the end, a Swedish art student Frida and I were stuck with the Dar option the next day.

I (eventually) arrived in Stone Town expecting monumental changes since my trip in 2003 but to be honest most things looked relatively similar. I guess as a UNESCO site there’s not that much that can change in the centre, which is such an awesome, atmospheric place. I’d say the town sprawls further and there are a lot more vehicles in the old town centre, making it less easy to just wander the streets. It would seem quite obvious as a UNESCO site they might make a simple traffic plan and close off some of the smaller streets. But still when Rome hasn’t managed to work out how to protect their building heritage from traffic, or even London when you think of St Paul’s, why should anyone else. Anyway, I got my festival pass sorted quickly and hot-footed it north to a place called Matwemwe. It was a nice enough stretch of sand but the prices of the once beach hut place had doubled and there were a lot of papasi on the beach trying to get your attention. So I headed back to Bwejuu on the east coast of Zanzibar with fingers crossed that it was as peaceful a place as I remembered…

Matemwe Beach looking less inviting...

On the way I met a (predictably) eccentric Austrian woman, who had been living on the island for a year and who helped me find affordable accommodation at Bwejuu, which isn’t that easy any more. But the beach there is just so beautiful it is hard to describe. The sand feels more like flour underfoot and it goes on for miles. It is so quiet, although there are plenty more hotels and developments than before. I saw one morning 5 gung ho beach bum kite surfers heading out to sea, at least one of whom must have been called Brad, so I guess more people are discovering Bwejuu’s allure. But what a place to kite surf – those guys were incredible and jumped metres into the sky catching, what I believe it is termed, big air.

That afternoon I set off for a guesthouse where I ate with a friend in 2003 called Robinson's Place. At that time they were trying to get their own farm off the ground and so we sent them the natural pesticide guide that we were using in the villages, which I hear worked out well (contrary to how it panned out in the village!!). I wondered if it had gone or would have changed any. In fact, apart from a few buildings, nothing much had changed. The welcome was warm and Anne and Eddy had gone even further in reducing their guesthouse’s footprint by cutting out their use of kerosene and replacing it with micro-power generation by wind and sun. Captain Planet would happily have stayed there forever I shouldn’t wonder.

Anyway – to the festival! I arrived on the first day of the festival proper and located, with rasta help, our guesthouse. Sella flew in from Dar an hour later (too scared to get on the boat), which was not enough time for me to memorise the route from the bus stand to our hotel as the Stone Town streets are seriously labyrinth. You think you’ve got your little landmarks and shop fronts down when, as we were to find out later, something pretty major changes in the matrix. Sella seemed rather taken aback that I couldn’t lead her confidently to the guesthouse, although we got there in the end. I guess as I had been there a few times she expected I would know the ropes on her first trip. Not so.

We made an enthusiastic start to the festival arriving in time for the opening parade and a pretty decent opening act from Zanzibar itself. This, with such an atmospheric setting as the Ngome Kongwe (Old Fort), which had been really brought to life with lighting, stalls and a buzzing international crowd, made for an seriously exciting start. Unfortunately, this was then offset by seemingly endless ngoma troops which, after sitting on the rock-hard ground for some hours, left us rather deflated. It was at that point that I read about the festival cutbacks and their focus on ‘upcoming talent’, which explained a few things about the line-up. Either way, watching ngoma from afar kind of defeats the object; it is more a participatory activity. The night was rescued for me by Ary Morais, although the Cape Verdean struggled to connect with the east African audience. But I got to throw some shapes. The night was then rescued for Sella by some highly questionable Taraab music, which seemingly involves groups of women standing up and whining at length, using Arabic maqam scales, about various sexual issues but exclusively through the use of metaphor. All of this is quite hard going on the chromatically-trained, vernacular-oblivious Westerner’s ear. Time for bed, although, easier said than done. All of our carefully memorised shop fronts had since disappeared after dark and we got completely lost on the walk home. Thankfully the streets of Zanzibar are safe, despite looking quite the opposite after dark.

Roaming the streets in Stone Town

The rest of our days were spent eating, sleeping, chatting, sipping drinks on rooftop bars and wandering the streets. We opted to enter the festival much later to avoid the chaff as well as the arse ache. One evening we watched with bemusement from a rooftop bar sipping cold drinks as a massive freighter caught ablaze in the harbour and nothing was done for over an hour. I started to make crude calculations as to how far metal might travel from an exploding oil freighter, but finally it was towed away to another location presumably to finish burning or to explode completely. On other afternoons, we had been trying to avoid entering conversation with a strange francophone group, some from Africa and some from France. One guy had asked Sella for her Blackberry PIN to message her. The next day in the same restaurant another guy asked for my programme and held the picture up next to his friend to ask whether I thought it was him. I replied in the negative, after trying to recreate the pose in the photograph, saying his teeth were different. Of course, lo and behold, they turned out to be the entire Fredy Massamba band. I could have mixed with the stars. Sella could have made sweet love over messenger. What dickwads we were.

Sella and I sip juice enjoying the Stone Town skyline, interrupted only by the smoke from a burning oil freighter

Highlight of the festival though, by far and away, was the mindblowing Nneka, who blew the rest of the festival away on the final night. I am not sure I have seen a live vocal performance quite like it, and her stage presence was amazing. Whilst Sella and I had disagreed on much, we couldn’t fail but be united on that one. I’m not sure I can do it justice though so I’ll stop talking.

Electrifying Hanitra from Madagascar gets intense 4pm slot in baking sun

Massively dubious modern Taarab

Teach Yourself Swahili, Part 1

Well, I would say 3 weeks in that I was possibly a little ambitious as to how much I would be able to achieve during language training. It is one thing to make yourself understood but quite another to get to grips properly with a language. I’ve always known that, I am not sure why I temporarily overlooked it. Time to pull my head out of the sand.

My mornings have basically been spent wrapped up in ‘Teach Yourself Swahili’ which, having both taught and been taught various languages, I think is absolutely flawless as a learning aid. Some people said they found it too grammary. I fricking love grammar; the more the better (except obviously in the context of this sloppily written blog). So the more I understand the language the more I see exactly how the author has put together the book and why, which in turn helps me remember it. I have been busily unpicking bad habits forged when I previously lived in Iringa in 2003. I seem, for example, to have completely bypassed getting to grips properly with the different noun classes at that time. My audience must have been extremely tolerant people – I could only have sounded like I had just emerged from the cave, grunting and pointing.

(For those unfamiliar, Swahili has eight noun classes, which relate to either the kind of word and/or its origin. Swahili is a relatively simple language with fewer irregularities than English and a much more restricted vocabulary, but those verb classes are a major stumbling block and dare I say pain in the ass. All verbs, adjectives and even to some extent numbers are modified to agree with noun depending on its class. In essence you get eight slightly different words for ‘my’, for ‘this’ for ‘big’ (give or take a few). Summary: painful learning and makes for dull blog content.)

This self-teaching process is then supplemented in the afternoons when I hit the town and go and find someone to have a chat to. In the market I go to great pains to ask for ‘those mangoes over there’, just because I read about it in the morning. My market Swahili is coming on a treat. All the traders flatter me with great, although probably slightly tongue in cheek, compliments at my prowess. Little do they know if they asked me my favourite colour I would crumple into a dribbling mess. Some people are great at modifying their language. There is a guy at Sella’s work who has a great talent for grading his language so I can understand. We had a great chat for about 30 minutes and I was most buoyed at my progress. Then I come home and I can’t even understand Alvira when she asks me what I want for dinner.

In the evenings then, I go off to meet Sarah who is my Swahili teacher, in a rather loose sense of the word. Warning bells went off at her suitability as a teacher right at the beginning when, after quite a long chat about why I want to learn Swahili, where I learnt it before, family situation and musical and artistic interests (all of which took place in Swahili), she brought out some teaching resources with basic greetings on them. She seemed surprised when I said I felt I could do all that (in Swahili). They asked for more detail about what I wanted to learn. I gave an example of ‘this/that/these/those’. Even then they asked for more detail (in Swahili). I wasn’t really sure how to give more detail than that. The conversation was highly confusing. Anyway, despite all this I decided to take a chance as Sarah seemed like a pretty cool chick to me, and it’s not as if I had an enormous choice of language trainers here in Bagamoyo or any other pressing plans.

We proceeded to meet three times a week for about an hour and a half on the beach for lessons, speaking only in Swahili. Sarah normally had prepared 10 or so sentences using the language point, but the lesson would involve her repeating the sentences over and over again, even when I had no idea what was going on. The lessons therefore evolved more into a place where I could just practice what I had studied in my book, which in fact started to work really well. In a strange role reversal I started bringing my own flashcards and teaching ideas along to the lesson. Given she teaches lots of wazungu introductory Swahili maybe some of it will come in handy, who knows. And when the conversation began to flow more freely towards the end of the lesson I found out snippets of Sarah’s interesting life stories, having lived in India as a performance artist, Zanzibar working for a UNICEF arts programme and she has big hopes and dreams for the future.

Lastly, all this has been supplemented by picking up appropriate vocab to life here in Bagamoyo, ably abetted by Alvira and Sella. In the village I seem to remember I knew the names of different kinds of insects, that thing that you sort rice on, the moon, a hoe, mud. These days I am more likely to need the vocab for electricity, the water is back on, humid, there is a live gig tonight, he was wasted and I prefer wood carvings over performance art thank you. Oh and today I learnt ‘Wow, I really stink, I need to shower’, whereas I would say in the village the other extreme would probably have been more noteworthy.

Anyway, onwards and upwards to a three week intermediate Swahili course in Arusha. I just hope after all this I’m ready!