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on pics for larger views.
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The
market at the entrance to Dar es Salaam harbour
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The
small craft anchorage
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map for larger view
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Dar
es Salaam harbour is a large deep-water lagoon and I doubt that there
is a
more beautiful or unique natural harbour anywhere in the world. On
entering, we observed a floating market to port with a ferry-landing-jetty
and taxi rank on the starboard bow. Behind the jetty was the city,
with beautiful, gracious Victorian buildings, some of them eight to
ten stories high with open air restaurants on their roofs. We noticed
our new South African flag flying proudly in a garden in front of
one of these buildings.
The shipping harbour was quite a distance away, to port. On our
starboard side was a Country Club, Golf Club and several private mansions, with rolling
lawns down to the waters edge. All had private landing jetties.
The vessels in the small craft harbour were of infinite variety, comprising
gracious Dhows, Chinese junks and many more of every conceivable size
and shape. Most were owned by foreigners and used for tourist charter
Two of the crew from a Chinese Junk came alongside in their tender.
Apparently the youngster, who spoke perfect English, was the PRO and
the old man, who hailed from Lamu in Kenya was the sail trimmer and
rigger. The youngster proudly intimated that Lamu was renowned for
producing the best sailors in the world and it was obvious that he
admired and deeply respected the old man. He chatted on, telling us
that their skipper was German, their Chef was Chinese and their Cabin
Boy was Tanzanian and that the crew aboard all the vessels in the
harbour were also a hotch-potch of nationalities.
They offered us a lift ashore, and for the duration of our short stay
they ensured that we never had a problem with transport to or from
the jetty. On one occasion they even rowed us ashore when their outboard
was unavailable!
The following morning six officials from Customs, Immigration and
Health came aboard to effect clearance procedures. They were courteous,
efficient, cheerful and honest and showed genuine interest in us,
the yacht and our journey thus far. We were charged $3US for a three
month VISA and given a legitimate receipt without having to ask for
it. They demanded nothing for themselves and Bob had the rare pleasure
of offering them refreshments and cigarettes and tipping them of his
own accord.
We'd planned to go ashore after they left but decided to delay our
visit as there appeared to be a massive parade with thousands of cheering
spectators passing along the waterfront. We later discovered that
it was our new President, Nelson Mandela, in a cavalcade through the
streets. Later when we met fellow South Africans at the yacht club,
they told us we could have attended a cocktail party given in his
honour. He had published a request to meet any South Africans who
happened to be in the area. This function apparently took place in
the building where we'd seen the South African flag flying.
After the fuss died down and the streets had cleared, we cadged a
lift ashore and made our way to the Embassy Hotel where we treated
ourselves to a slap up grill. Next stop was the bank, then the Pharmacy,
then the Mall and finally the market where we stocked up on fresh
produce and a gigantic watermelon.
Having obtained permission we moved around to the Yacht Club the following
day. Clearing the harbour we entered the first bay to the North and
found ourselves tucked behind a headland where an elevated face-brick
clubhouse overlooked the yachts at anchor below. Once again the customary
mansions ringed the headland but here they all appeared to be occupied,
as tenders were made fast at the bottom of each flight of steps leading
down to the water.
On going ashore towards evening we were delighted to find that there
was every facility a cruising yachtie could wish for. In addition
to the ferry service there were excellent ablution blocks, a chandlery,
laundry, telephones, fax machines, taxis to the city and a
modern shopping centre close by. Moreover, in this part of Africa
yacht clubs double as country clubs, and consequently the tremendous
bar and restaurant was well patronised, affording visiting yachties
the opportunity to meet the local folk.
View from the Dar Yacht Club patio.
Rori
Meiring, Secretary to the South African High Commissioner introduced
himself to us and treated us like royalty for the duration of our
stay. He also introduced us to the South African Security guys who
were travelling with our President and it was good to converse with
fellow countrymen (in some of the eleven official languages of our
country!) They agonised over our President who was apparently a security
nightmare. He persistently ignored their carefully planned precautions
by moving amongst the crowd, shaking hands with the men and hugging
and kissing the women and children.
The following morning Lowell and Bea North, who were anchored alongside
us on Yacht "Wanago", called on VHF and invited us for sundowners
that evening, after-which we all went ashore together for dinner.
It transpired that they were leaving for the States shortly with a
stopover in London. Lowell needed to undergo surgery to his shoulder
and they intended leaving their yacht in Dar during their absence.
They weren't familiar with London so we were delighted to be able
to recommend a good, well-situated and reasonably priced hotel.
Throughout our stay we went ashore every evening and enjoyed many
giggles whilst listening to the fabrications of the "master blasters".
These people frequent yacht clubs throughout the world and the tall tales
they relate make one want to flop into the nearest chair.
We figured it was only a seven hour passage to Zanzibar so we set
sail at sun-up on 7 June, arriving in time for lunch ashore. A few
dugouts lay on the beach just beyond the waterline so Bob grabbed
Ern's infamous "Nacala conch" and let rip with a few tuneless blows.
A head popped up behind one of the dugouts. Bob blew again and we
all joined in with frantic waves and yells. The head became a body
and the body started dragging the dugout towards the waterline. Jumps
for joy and shouts of triumph from the yacht.
Zanzibar town from the anchorage with the "House
of Wonders" towards the right.
The
Fishermen's Restaurant is situated on the wharf and a fresh catch
was being carried in as we arrived. By the time we were seated Bob
and Ern were salivating, as they'd each picked out a crab the size
of a serving platter. I ordered a fruit salad which was so large I
suspect it could have fed everyone in the restaurant. I can't remember
what Liz ordered but the entire feast only cost $9US.
We wandered into a scuba dive shop close by and discovered that it
was run by a bunch of young South African ex-pats. South Africa has
many Moslem citizens but we knew little about them and their culture
as at the time it was illegal for us to fraternize across the colour
line in our country. These perceptive young people realised this and
spontaneously educated us on mode of conduct and appropriate dress
to spare us possible embarrassment. Fortunately it transpired that
we were suitably attired so we set off to explore the "maze" of stone
town.
We found Zanzibar to be an extraordinary island with a surprise around
every corner and breathtakingly beautiful beaches and reefs. The local
Government was in the midst of a massive restoration programme to
the ancient buildings that had been constructed with coralitic stone centuries before.
Many of the men are magnificent cabinet makers and we had the privilege
of watching them at work carving replicas of the massive ancient brass-studded
doors that adorn every doorway. It was fascinating to learn that the
purpose of these carvings, which were introduced centuries ago, was
to enable the occupants to advertise their trade or occupation. A
fisherman had fish carvings on his door, a farmer had vegetables or
flowers, and so on.
They had recently launched an aggressive marketing campaign to boost
their tourist industry and we met tourists from every corner of the
world. I must say though that it was disconcerting to hear blaring disco
music coming from an ancient building!
For years I'd combed antique shops the world over to find an
ancient padlock for our wine cellar so I was over the moon when I stumbled
upon one in a locksmith shop. It was in a huge box of used padlocks
of yesteryear, all of which had been repaired for resale. Mine had
a modern locking-mechanism skillfully concealed inside the old casing and the lock functions perfectly!
A typical street in "Stone Town".
Then
we
then tried to get ourselves out of the maze and even my Captain, who
has the sense of direction of a homing pigeon, was lost! Fortunately
we were commandeered by Mahommed, who appointed himself our guide.
In keeping with quaint eastern custom he addressed me as "Mama" and
whenever there were steps or uneven surfaces to be negotiated he would
take my arm and, singing to the tune of the ever-popular African song
"Pole' Pole' Sa Sa" (carefully, carefully - slowly, slowly), he substituted
the words "Pole', Pole' Mama".
When the public address system came to life, summonsing the men to
worship, Mahommed took off . By now we'd become accustomed to the
calls to prayer, as we'd heard them many times throughout Africa but
this was the first time we'd had the privilege of being amongst the
men when they locked and bolted up their shops and hurried to the
Mosques. Thoughtfully the prayers are broadcast over a public address
system for the benefit of those who have customers in their shops
and cannot leave them unattended.
We passed a Mosque and I glanced through the door - then immediately
realised that I'd
committed a faux pas when I noticed that the Moslem women drew up
their shawls, averted their faces and hurried by. After that I was
careful to keep my eyes downcast.
It
was very hot and we were thirsty so we made our way back to a restaurant
named "The House of Spices" which we'd passed just prior to Mahommed
leaving us for Mosque. He'd told us it was owned by a South African.
We climbed the three flights of stairs to the top floor and seated
ourselves at a table with excellent views of the Island. We were served
by the owner's son Damian, who struck up a friendship with Ern. Apparently
they also owned a second restaurant called "Ze Pizza".
Back at the yacht at dusk, we noticed someone paddling towards us
in a canoe. He pulled up alongside and we invited him aboard. He introduced
himself as Abuie and spoke
reasonably good English. He told us the canoe was his most prized
possession and that and he paddled each morning and evening to keep
fit. The next time we saw him he was a very sad young man as his canoe
had disappeared. Apparently he'd gone for his customary evening paddle,
then pulled it up the beach as he usually did. He wasn't certain whether it
had been stolen or taken out with the tide. Having recently been through
a similar experience, we understood exactly how he felt.
At sundown we heard loud music coming from the shore. It was still
light enough to see that a large crowd had gathered in the square
on the waterfront and we wondered what on earth they were up to now.
It proved to be our introduction to that wonderful eastern custom
known as "eating on the street". The entire neighbourhood gets together
each evening to socialise whilst enjoying inexpensive meals from the
food markets.
The Anglican Church built over the whipping post site.
The
following day Mahommed took us to the Anglican Church constructed
over the site of the original slave market. Our guide drew our attention
to two circles of pink marble which symbolised the blood of the slaves.
One was embedded in the alter slab and the other in the floor in front
of the alter - marking the spot where the original whipping post once
stood.
We descended to the dungeons by way of a flight of slippery, slimy,
stone steps and were shown two dungeons - one for women and children,
the other for men. I cannot recall how many people were imprisoned
together at one time but it was evident that they were cruelly overcrowded.
To limit their body effluent they were only given sufficient food
and water to keep them alive. Moreover, there was a furrow of water
flowing strongly through the dungeons and because they were constantly
thirsty the incessant sound of the running water drove them close
to insanity.
They were whipped and viciously beaten by the slave-traders during
the auctions, to enable prospective buyers to assess their strength
and value. Those who cried out immediately were sold for the equivalent
of a modern day shilling and their value increased in accordance with
the amount of pain they could tolerate.
Once sold they were shackled together and marched to the dhows. If
the young, old, feeble and infirm collapsed or dropped the pace they
were clubbed to death, then cut loose and left. This discouraged others
from malingering in the hopes of being abandoned, thus earning themselves
a chance to escape.
The hulls of the dhows were fitted with "shelves" constructed from
floor boards, each two feet apart, one shelf above the other. The
slaves were lain side by side upon these and shackled together. Their
food and water was rationed and they were left lying in their own
body waste for the duration of their journey. As this was governed
by the monsoons, many of them never made it. I was embarrassed to
find myself sobbing and observed that Bob too had tears on his cheeks!
Regrettably we had to cut our visit short as Bob and I were booked
to fly home to South Africa on business. We set off in what we now
accepted to be the customary fabulous sailing conditions at around
midday on 12 March and were rather put out when the wind
swung at mid-afternoon and we had to beat back and forth for the rest
of the trip. We only reached Dar at 01h30 the following morning and
left for our flight back to Durban four days later. Liz prolonged
her stay for a further ten days, then left the yacht permanently.
It was delightful to return to the peace and tranquility of the yacht
after a busy three weeks at home. That evening we celebrated a combined
welcome back and farewell dinner with Lowell and Bea who were leaving
the following morning.
After returning from the States their plans were to sail to Durban,
spend a couple of months exploring the area and visiting some South
African safari parks, then continue on to Cape Town. Being aware of
our treacherous coastline, Lowell discussed his proposed journey with
Bob who advised him not to sail South during the winter months because
of the perpetual SW fronts which move up the coast at that time of
the year. There is no large-scale Admiralty chart available for Linga
Linga, Inhambane so Bob gave Lowell the waypoints for entry just in
case he needed a place to shelter in the advent of a big blow.
When Lowell arrived back in Africa he decided to take a chance and
leave a little early as he was travelling in tandem with another yacht
and it's skipper had a deadline to meet. It was fortuitous that he
had the waypoints for Inhambane as it transpired that the other yacht
snapped it's boom in a big blow and both yachts took shelter in the
bay at Linga Linga. Ever the entrepreneur, Mike sold them a hardwood
tree which the locals shaped to fit inside the boom. Ah .....
the spirit of Africa!!
Months later we picked up "Wanago" the Yachtie Net and were delighted
to hear that Lowell's surgery was a complete success.
We decided to return to Zanzibar as there was still much we wanted to see and do. On arrival we hailed a dugout and went
ashore and as we
hit the beach Mahommed materialised from nowhere! We told him we wanted
to do a Spice Tour so he rubbed his genie lamp and poof ! ......"Doctor"
Sulieman appeared. To the accompaniment of "Pole' Pole' Mama" we were
loaded onto the back of a pick-up truck and driven into the hills.
We trailed after the "Doctor" as he plucked leaves and flowers from
trees and bushes and educated us on their medicinal value. Some he
crushed, then invited us to smell their perfume on his hands. Now
we understood why we were able to pick up the fragrant scent of the
island from miles offshore. There appeared to be a natural cure for
every conceivable illness but it was obvious that Mother Nature favoured
the ladies as she even provided them with lipstick. He led us to a
tree which grows nowhere else in the world and picked off a piece
of fruit. Breaking it open he instructed me to dip my finger into
the fruit then rub it on my lips. Voila! - free lipstick. (I might
add that it stuck like crazy and took days to wear off.
Our next stop was a cave and while we explored it the good doctor
explained that after the abolition of slavery, wily traders had
used it to conceal their captives. He showed us where they'd tunneled
through the earth and down to the sea, making it possible for them
to transport their human "cargo" to the waiting dhows ...... unobserved
in the dead of night.
We finally waved farewell to Zanzibar on 24 July and set sail for
Tanga, the most northern port of Tanzania.
We spent the entire night dodging flying objects in the Saloon. The
sea was bubbling like a witch's cauldron creating a most uncommon
sensation. I felt like Alice in Wonderland in a teacup. Bob explained that this was caused
by the wind backing up the current in the channel between the island
of Pemba and the mainland.
To add to our problems, we were sailing through
minefields of fishing dhows. These guys extinguish their lights to
conserve fuel - a dangerous game to play as the crew tend to snooze
when the fish aren't active. They shift the onus on other vessels
to avoid them and there were times when I figured it would teach them
a lesson if they landed up with our 20 tons of steel up their rear
ends!! Every half-hour I flashed the deck lights to let them know
that we were there and chuckled spitefully when the entire sea lit
up like a Xmas tree.
When it grew light we noticed hundreds of coral outcrops all the way
along the coast and perceived it be a popular diving area. However,
for the duration of our stay we never saw any of these activities
taking place. Perhaps the potential had not yet been discovered as
it was so far off the beaten track.
We dropped anchor at Tanga at 10h30 and found it to be another beautiful,
safe harbour with a pretty shoreline. A long flight of steps led to
an unpretentious building, perched above the beach. We were relieved
to discover that there was a ferry service and correctly deduced that
this was par for the course in all East African countries north of
Mozambique. Godwin the ferryman pulled up alongside and offered to
take us ashore so Bob asked Ern to go up to the club to find out what
facilities were available.
Tanga Yacht Club
The
only persons present were Allison Maudsley and the cleaning staff.
Allison was setting out bowls of flowers on the tables and supervising
the cleaners so Ern mistook her to be the housekeeper. It transpired
that all the lady members took turns with these chores.
She was apparently well-informed as she spontaneously answered all
his questions. She suggested that we come ashore for drinks and dinner
that evening to meet the rest of the members, which we did, and they
gave us a warm welcome. We were pleasantly surprised at how little
we were charged for temporary membership fees, drinks and a delicious
home-cooked meal.
The following morning Godwin knocked on the side of the yacht to attract
our attention. He pointed towards the beach and there was Allison
waving for us to come ashore. The previous evening I'd mentioned that
we'd like to see the town and enquired as to whether there was any
sort of public transport or taxi service available. Unfortunately
there wasn't but she undertook to arrange something for us. There
she was now with her two small sons David and James and all her plans
in place.
Her husband Steve had provided a pick-up and driver to take us wherever
we wished and, much to our embarrassment, refused to accept reimbursement.
She'd decided to tag along to ensure that we found the best items
in the right places at the correct prices. We visited the market,
the butchery, the grocery store, the bakery and a ladies' hairdressing
salon where I indulged myself with a long-overdue haircut.
At the time it was difficult and expensive to obtain bottled drinking
water north of Durban. Consequently I'd been drawing water from our
1200 litre freshwater tank, boiling it on the gas stove and decanting
it back into the bottles we'd saved. Dear Allison collected up our
empty bottles, took them home and got her cook to do the boiling and
re-filling for us.
For the duration of our stay we went ashore every evening for sundowners
and dinner and on each occasion would return to the yacht with aching
stomach muscles from all the belly-laughs we enjoyed with them. It
was so good getting to know these delightful people and it appeared
that the feelings were mutual. It was apparent that few cruising yachts
called there so, being isolated as they were, they probably welcomed
an injection of fresh faces.
Johnny Venter, a South African ex-pat, came out to the yacht with
Godwin one morning bringing us a load of grapefruit. We were very
grateful as it's the finest fruit to carry on board because it keeps
for a long time. Bob reciprocated by giving him some biltong
(jerky) and Johnny did cartwheels as this is unobtainable in Tanzania
and he hadn't tasted any in years.
Gephard and his wife Lyn had a pet mongoose which constantly climbed
all over her and entangled itself in her beautiful long blonde hair.
I developed a rapport with Simon, an avid reader, and discovered that
we had a common passion for a South African author John Gordon Davis.
Simon was surprised to learn that for years John's books had been
banned in South Africa as he scathingly attacked and condemned the
"apartheid" system. He was even more surprised to hear that it was
actually a criminal offence for South Africans to be in possession
of JGD's literature. I recounted to him how each time I returned to
South Africa from a trip abroad I would sneak one of John's books
into the country and pass through customs with a pounding heart. Had
it been discovered I could have been apprehended.
At first we thought the Commodore, Dick Blakeway was a little pompous and overbearing
but we soon realised that this was all a veneer. There were whispers
that he and Ol' Charlie had been locked in a vendetta for more than
ten years. They never addressed each other directly but frequently
raised their voices to sling off and pass scathing comments about each other. Initially we found
this embarrassing but it was so hopelessly
juvenile that before long we too joined in with the laughter.
Ol' Charlie, aged ninety-three, must have been quite the lad in his
day. He was a real old flirt, forever charming and complimenting the
ladies. He boasted that he'd been married nine times and gossip from
the girls revealed that his current wife was a local lass in her early
twenties who'd borne him a child - now a three year old toddler.
One day I noticed him sitting at the bar-counter writing away laboriously.
Later he took a seat at our table and handed me a pile of used bar
slips, the backs of which were covered with penciled scribblings.
This proved to be a subjective lyric which he'd composed to read at
an A G M address on one of the many occasions when he was Commodore
of the Club. It reads as follows:-
"At the sign of the leaping Dolphin the expatriates gather 'round
determined to enjoy the sunshine - and a beer (when their wives aren't
around)
They come from many a country, there's Dutchmen, Germans and Swedes
there's Scots and some Welsh and Geordie's - and many other half breeds.
The members have many religions like Hindus, Muslims and Seikhs,
Some profess to be Christians like Catholics and Orthodox Greeks.
Some journey to Mecca to worship, or weep at the Jew's wailing wall,
But some like ol' Charlie and Blakeway - have no religion at all!
But somehow they all get together at Annual General Meeting time
and to listen to some of the orations, is as good as a pantomime!
So come back sometime and rejoin us, if only for just a day
and I'm certain you'll find the welcome the same -
and you may find good reason to stay!"
On Saturday Steve and Allison took us out for the day. We lunched
at the Panora Motel and then drove on to their home. Once again we
experienced the nostalgic feeling of driving in an English countryside.
Their house was a double-storied thatched Tudor with stables, an orchard
and a garden filled with huge knarled oak trees.
We walked along a shady country lane to the school, where we met the
entire neighbourhood. There was a game of volley ball on the go and
everyone joined in for a turn to play. Later we returned to their
house for dinner after-which they drove us back to the Yacht Club.
It proved to be a truly magical day out and a welcome break from the
yacht.
Late one afternoon Ol' Charlie sat on the patio sipping his beer and
gazing out to sea with his rheumy old eyes. Dick was standing close
to the open doorway slinging off loudly and hurling the customary
insults. "Look at the stupid old codger! Probably got the bloody sulks
again, hey?". Quietly one of us said something like, "Shame Dick,
leave him alone "; another added "Everyone gets a bit cantankerous at that
age"; then "We'll probably all go down that road one day" - or words
to that effect. He sat silent for awhile then suddenly rose and walked
outside and we wondered whether we'd said too much.
But through the glass doors we noticed him take a seat beside ol'
Charlie and place an arm around his shoulders, whereupon they began
talking together quietly. Shortly after they were perched side by
side at the bar counter as happy as sand boys, clinking glasses,
yarning, and laughing raucously. All eyes in the club were downcast
and there wasn't a dry eye amongst us. Rightly or wrongly we stole
a little credit for the reconciliation.
Sadly, on Wednesday evening 2 August our sojourn came to an end and
we were given an over-indulged farewell party at the Club. The entire gang escorted
us to the top of the steep steps leading down to the beach. Everyone
was singing as the three of us descended arm in arm. Then one of us lost
our footing and the three of us went down together, landing on our
bottoms! Shrieks of laughter from the top of the steps and from we
three.
Needless to say we had a late start the following morning and by the
time we'd readied the yacht it was 13h30. As we lifted anchor we heard
shouts from the shore and looking upwards towards the Clubhouse we saw them
all, every last one of them, waving farewell with the bright-red cloths
from the restaurant tables. In unison they screamed "Goodbye". We
returned the salutation with a few healthy blasts on the conche. Godwin
paddled furiously alongside in his effort to escort us out of the
bay but the spiteful "fat lady" kicked in her engine and left him behind.
On reflection, we shall always remember Tanga as our happiest and
most festive stopover. Furthermore, Tanzania was the only country
we ever visited where we had no form of official corruption whatsoever.
UPDATE
EDIT
Circa
2003 we received an email from a young lady who was a teenager at the
time of our visit. She'd been surfing the internet and found this
website. We were delighted to hear that virtually the same wonderful
friendly crowd were still around.
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