The three days we spent on the island were pretty idyllic. Beautiful, screen-saver-worthy beaches, fresh mango at breakfast, warm blue water. Nice, right? It was perfect for me, mentally and physically, to go die on a beach for a few days. I read, laid in the sun, and rested. 
We went on a spice tour one morning, which ended up being very interesting. Even better, the lunch they served us was delicious. Pilau rice (rice spiced with cinnamon, ginger, coriander, among others) with coconut sauce and a tomato sauce, and then hunks of fresh mango for dessert. They served us chai tea made with spices from their farm. It was perfect.
That afternoon we went to Stone Town, where our driver magically procured a guide to take us around the city on a tour. Our guide’s name was Striker and he literally appeared out of thin air at our door. Striker was a native Stone Townian and after the formalities were taken care of, he led us off on a walking tour of his hometown. We started in the fruit markets, and made our way through the narrow streets, almost constantly shadowed by tall buildings on either side. Stone Town got its name from its buildings, all of which are made of…stone. There is a law stating that any building in the city must be constructed out of stone, no other material.
We walked to a church/museum that had been built on the site of the former slave market in the city. Once inside, we were taken by another guide down below the church to see where slaves had been kept…stored is a more appropriate word…while awaiting their fate on the market. The traders would pack over 100 people into these cells, which had a central aisle that ran between a raised, semi-circular platform on which people be crammed. We sat on this platform while our guide explained the trading process, and got a look out of the cell’s only window -- a sliver that had been cut out of the wall no more than a foot tall and a few inches wide. And this was the wider version they had enlarged from the previously smaller, original window.
From the holding cells, we walked to the church and explored the inside. One funny story involves the columns (pictured) that were erected by local workers. The architect wasn’t on site, but had given instructions to finish getting the columns in place. The workers accidentally placed the columns upside down, with the base supporting the ceiling and the top resting firmly and securely on the floor. I snapped a picture for those art and architecture buffs, thinking you’d enjoy that. Our guide told us about Dr. Livingstone’s connection to the church, and to Stone Town, explaining the plaque dedicated to Livingstone that hangs high on the wall next to the pews. He told us the story of how Livingstone had died while traveling with his two best friends, and they had carried his body all the way back to Stone Town. He said that a few years ago he had been explaining the story to a group of Brits when one of the women broke down crying. Obviously bewildered, he asked what was wrong and it turned out that she was one of Livingstone’s descendants and had been shocked, and very moved to hear the story. Small world.
We left the museum and church, meeting Striker and making our way back through the streets. He pointed out the unique architectural features of the buildings, the Indian and Arabic influences on the finely decorated wooden doors we passed. We ended the tour back at the water, looking out at the harbor. Striker said his goodbyes, and left us to wander around for ourselves a bit. We had an incredible dinner on the beach, and then realized there was a nightly food market that was set up in the park by the water. We walked over to find endless tables and stands that had been set up, with men cooking all different kinds of meats, breads, roti, vegetables, pancakes with bananas and chocolate sauce. It was unbelievable. We made our way through the crowd of people who had turned out to eat, stopping for a fried pancake with banana and chocolate. After eating our faces for the 4th time that day, we fell into our cab and drove back to Paje. What a day.
Our last day was another wake up, eat mango, lay on the beach day. I thoroughly enjoyed it. There was, however, the small detail of booking a flight back to Dar. We considered taking the ferry from Stone Town, but logistics would have been a nightmare. So, I tried to give my old pal Robert a call with the help of our friend, Nicolas, at the front desk. I showed Nicolas my plane ticket with Robert’s number. He looked at it quickly, and then told me he would take care of it; rather, he would speak with a guy who had a phone (out at the moment), hopefully there would be a flight available (“there is probably a flight tomorrow”), and there would be no problem! This fell on very American ears. Trained by my dad to book flights with online reminders up until takeoff and to arrive at the airport hours early, I was a little wary of this plan.
I ended up speaking with Annika, our hostess for all intents and purposes. She assured me she would call the travel agent and arrange something. Fast forward to late afternoon…Check in with Annika and no news yet…“I will speak with her tonight and let you know…” Okay, dinner rolls around -- no news. I was told to check in with her the next morning.
Morning comes, and I walked as quickly as I could to Annika’s office, trying not to look too eager or too strung out about not having secured our flights yet. As I walked in, she looked up at me and it was like it took a minute for her to remember why I was busting down the door at 8. Ohhh -- that flight. Well, it turns out our travel lady had no generator the night before, and with the power outage island-wide, no dice on the tickets yet. At this point, I could have pulled a major American and flipped out. However, I kept my head (be proud of me), smiled, and said I would check in again after breakfast.
Breakfast over. Annika had good news. We had tickets waiting for us at the travel agent’s. She handed me a medium-sized envelope addressed to the agency and, holding it against her chest, looked me in the eye and said, “Give this to the lady at the agency.” For a second I wondered if it was something illegal or awesome like that, but then I snapped back into reality (though it was a bit dramatic the way she gave her instructions). She then mentioned that the tickets were cash-only -- shocker. We loaded up our van and headed off to an ATM to withdraw thousands of shillings once again. Money in hand, we drove back into Stone Town and the driver pulled over near a cluster of old buildings near the water. No one said anything, and there was no sign for a travel agent in sight. Just as I was asking if we were going to the agency, the driver turned around to ask us the same thing. He assumed we knew the white building to our left with no markings was our destination.
Out of the van, into the building, envelope handed over to a nice woman, who became even friendlier when we forked over the cash. Here’s the best part -- she proceeded to tear a corner off an add for “Spanish Dancer Dive,” whatever that is, and then write our names and the name of the airline with the flight number on the back. She handed it over and I managed to keep a straight face until we got outside. At that point, our plane was scheduled to take off in 20 minutes. I remained surprisingly calm, having given myself over to the fact that things would happen and I had zero influence over them. Better to sit back and enjoy. We arrived at the airport 5 minutes to takeoff time, managed to check our bags and get through security (really just a matter of walking through the right door). Passengers were given umbrellas to use when they ran across the tarmac to the little 12-seater -- except us. When we got to the door and asked if we could use one, the answer was a shake of the head (no). Sweet. Mad dash to the plane, damp ride back to Dar, and, finally, got on the plane to Moshi.
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