Zanzibar

Blue waters crash against white shores. In the nearby sea, wooden fishing boats float alongside each other, the color of rust from clinging to their bodies after their long lives at sea. Beyond them, yachts and freighters pull their weight away from east Africa and into the wide Indian Ocean. Along the shore, dozens of children toss their black bodies off of an ancient stone pier into the waves, bobbing happily amidst the water and their peers. Sitting on the shore, tourists watch from Thai restaurants, sipping beer and cocktails in white and mahogany safari chairs.
As the sun dips below the horizon both locals and tourists head through the winding alley like streets, hugging buildings in order to squeeze between careening cars coming in both directions down a road built before cars threatened to forcefully expand them. Everyone it seems is headed to the same place: the market.
Approaching through the darkened park, through trees and gazebos and dirt and litter, silhouettes are backlit against anchor lights in the open harbor. There are hundreds of people of all colors milling about, some in khaki shorts and T-shirts, others in traditional Maasai dress, their red robes draped gracefully around their lanky bodies.
There are no stalls in this market place. Instead, one end consists of blankets covered in various wares, from beaded bracelets, anklets, and necklaces, to carved rhinos and elephants, traditional masks, serving spoons, and batik paintings. “Looking is free, my friend,” sounds out in English and Swahili. Tourists and touts introduce themselves, putting a friendly edge on the ensuing interactions. Each haggles for their idea of a better price, the tourist wanting less and the salesmen more.
The stalls gradually shift from goods to food. Directly on the harbor, each table is identically heaped with similar morsels. There are kebabs of all sorts, full prawns skewered and grilled, pieces of lobster, crayfish, calamari, and fresh fish. Chicken, beef, or various other kinds of meat kebabs are passed from person to person. Fried bananas, breadfruit and naan round out these animal offerings, placed on the stand next to lobster and crab claws as large as a human hand. Zanzibari pizzas fry on round skillets, their light bread becoming golden as the egg, onion, and meat filling solidifies into warm, mouth-melting goodness. The air smells of fish and smoke and charcoal. Only hot coals of open grilling fires illuminate the crowds; the ambience is mysterious and scurrying as money and food are exchanged. Tummies are filled; the daily bread is both made and consumed.
In 1964, the two independent countries of Tanganyika and Zanzibar created Africa’s only functioning merger of separate nations. They became Tanzania. Despite 41 years of joint nationhood, this island 40 miles off the coast of Tanzania has maintained its own distinct and celebrated culture. Here Arab, Indian and African cultures mix today as they have for two millennia, highlighting the history of Bantu people, Persian traders, Omani sultans, missionaries and locals who have lived out there days amidst the pristine beaches. Carved doors and key-holed windows reflect the Arab influences, while Swahili is spoken over never-ending games of boo and moncala, traditional African board games. The island feels less like one imagines Africa, and more like some exotic time-warp to a place that is so varied it seems unidentifiable. Yet here it is. May further explorations continue to reveal the islands many facets over curlicues of octopus leg and machete sales, never disappointing in providing the fantastic and unanticipated.