Pemba Island

The ferry was just off the dock, making its way out to sea.  Looking out at the water there was only darkness, but lights glowed warmly inside the passenger area behind us an occasionally illuminated a wave crust just off the boat.  It was a hot and sticky night, and Orian and I were glad to be outside with the breeze, away from the crying children, the stale breath of a room packed too tightly.  There must not be any regulations on carrying capacity, I thought.  

People were not quite ready to sleep.  What had been a quiet and private little corner turned into a happening spot, with 12 or 15 men standing about 8ft down from us on the walkway,crammed together, leaning against the rail, trying to see over a stack of bags and mattresses to watch a movie playing inside.  A cute little boy came and sat next to Orian and me; I was writing in my journal, but Orian was talked to him awhile.  Then Orian was reading, and the boy moved closer to me, staring at me.  I looked up.  "Hello," I said.  How are you?" "Give me money," he said insistently.  "No," I responded, "Where is your mother?"  He pointed inside.  "Give me some money."

"I am not going to give you any money," I said, and went back to writing in my journal.  But the moment was gone and I was tired of writing.  The boy was still sitting there.  I leaned up against Orian and tried to sleep.  Every once in awhile I would open my eyes, when a person walked by or when a wave crashed loudly, and the boy was still there.  Every so often he would stick out his hand or demand, "Money."  Eventually he went away.  

We set our bags up against the wall, and we each lay our sleeping pad partly on our bags and partly on the deck.  The deck was not more than a meter wide, and after the boat pushed off more foot traffic began filtering past, which meant we had only a foot and a half or so in which to spread out our stuff and find some sleep.  I got myself situated quite comfortably, and drifted off.  But there was a drip from the floor above; we didn't know from what, but it was a constant drip, and as the boat rocked from side to side, the drips would drip on us as it leaned to one direction and then drip into the sea when it tipped towards the other direction.   I sat up.  We lay a tarp for me over by the railing, away from the drip.  People had to step over me to walk down the way, so I had a hard time falling asleep because I was afraid someone would not see me--I did not want to be stepped on.  But it was comfortable to lay flat, instead of on my bags and I fell asleep again, only to be woken not much later by water crashing above me.  I got wet--though not soaked, enough to not want to stay there; the tarp was in a puddle.  

"Orian, I got splashed by a wave," I said to him groggily, nudging him awake.  

"Oh yeah?" he said, "Do you want to move?"

"Not really."

"Well what do you want to do?"

"I don't know," I said stupidly, "I guess I'll just sit here [against the wall, where it was drier]."  There were no obviously open spaces, and I didn't want to sleep by myself.  Even though I cannot actually interact with Orian when I am sleeping, I preferred to sleep next to him.  So I went and sat on my bags by the rail and groggily tried to relax, not expecting to find sleep there but too tired to think of a better solution.  The ferry tipped back and forth more and more violently with each tilt until it would suddenly calm before beginning the procedure anew.  That is why I had been hit by the wave; we had passed the protection of Zanzibar and were getting the ocean waves at their full strength, which were causing the boat to tip further towards the water.  The water was splashing aboard more and more violently.  It was getting to difficult to avoid; I sensed that if I stayed there I would be soaked in no time.  Not only that, but because of the rocking motion, sitting up was making me feel nauseous.  I got up and went towards the smelly bathroom at the stern of the boat.  There was a large coil of rope there, by which the anchor was attached to the ship.  There were now only a couple of people here, although it had been crowded when Orian and I first boarded.  I sat down.  It was nice and I was dry.  I went to get a tarp and one of my bags for a pillow and a fleece to keep me warm and set it next to the giant coil.  I fell asleep leaning against my bag.  

When I awoke, an hour or so later, there were more people around me.  There was a man sitting next to me on the head of a pipe.  He had his elbows on his knees and propped his head in his hands, trying to sleep.  There were more people on the other side of the corner.  I fell back asleep, taking time to overcome the nausea I had in my belly every time my head was lifted up.  

Retching.  That was the next sound I heard: violent, dry, heaving, right by my head.  I had taken my glasses off and stuck them up my sleeve (the easiest place to keep them safe and handy) and I am blind without them, but I guessed that someone was getting seasick.  "Not near me, please," I thought to myself, "not on the floor next to me...if she vomits there...," here I imagined the smell, the wetness, "I am close enough to being sick when I am awake as it is."  I fumbled and found my glasses, putting them on.  There was a middle-aged crone in black (black dress cover, black head cover), leaning over, one hand on the railing, the other clutching her stomach as she leaned over, heaving just outside the bathroom but not moving to open the door.  The man sitting next to me on the pipe opened the bathroom door because she seemed content to get sick on the deck.  Opening the door brought a flood of "fresh" foul scents; the smelliest bathroom I'd seen on the trip.  It swung open; the woman didn't close it behind her.  The man closed it.  I am not sure whether the woman was sick or not, but she was in there a long time.  By the time she had come out a long line had gathered, women and children, needing to pee.

I was a bit astounded by the quality of their dresses, the dresses on the women and the dresses on the little girls.  Many wore crappy plastic flip-flops, some wore nice heels, but almost all the women had on chiffon beneath their black caftans and head wrappings.  Chiffon veils.  Little girls in chiffon, wearing dresses that would be on a flower girl at a fancy wedding.  Many women in Tanzania wore clothes like this;  the girls might be playing in the mud, living in thatched huts, but they played in chiffon.  The women might squat in an outhouse and have no plumbing  and eat chips (french fries) for a meal, but they wore chiffon, or silk, or satin.  And here on this boat it was even more astounding; I cringed whenever I touched a surface on the boat, and I was in my dirty traveling clothes.  Well, whatever.

I slept like this the rest of the night, until day started breaking.  It was cloudy and started drizzling before we pulled into the dock on Pemba.  There were no lights as we approached the island, even though the dawn was just breaking.  Not very well developed, not like Zanzibar, where most places had decent electricity.  

It was very picturesque when we pulled in.  Misty harbor, beautiful dhows.  When we pulled in, we let most of the passengers debark before we tried to get our things off.  Orian brought some of our panniers, which we had had to take off to load the bikes, and I had the handlebar bags.  I sat with the stuff while Orian made trips back to the ship.  Off the boat, all was chaos: no rhyme or reason to the unloading, not traffic patterns, every man for himself.  I held our little corner; it was alright, the crowd moved past to get off the dock.  It started raining harder; I put on my rain jacket, opened the tarp, and sat underneath it.  Once we had all our stuff in one place, we braved the rain to load our bikes and moved towards land.  It rained harder and harder as we moved towards the buildings off the dock, that we were completely soaked within 100m.  We just wanted to find a dry place, but someone saw that we were mzungus and waved us into immigration.  Another hassle; they stamped us for Pemba Island.  Then they sent us back into the rain.  Everywhere people were standing under the eaves, just waiting out the storm.  But we didn't know where we were, we were hungry, and we had no place to go.  I was already soaked.  I just wanted to move somewhere dry, where we could sit out of the damp and eat something hot.  We passed buildings, trying to find our way through the blinding downpour.  Up a hill that was now a river, overcoming branches and other obstacles the river carried with it.  I didn't know where to go, just up, past the little shanties that probably had chai but had no shelter.  Up, up, I hope I find something, and then there were some buildings.  The rain let up a little; still raining, but easier to see.  

"Una chai?" Orian asked the shopkeeper.  "Do you have chai?"  He did and we parked our bikes and went inside.  No chapati.  I picked a roll and ordered some soup, and Orian had some njera-like crepes: basically, a spongy pancake,  not very flavorful.  The soup was overly salty, but was warm.

We sat there, wet.  I put my contacts in at the sink; better to wear contacts when it is raining.  This is where I would put contacts in in Tanzania; it was hard to find water, but at places with chai we were brought water with which to wash our hands and I would take advantage of the opportunity to wash my hands, use hand sanitizer (the water was no good to drink), and put in my contacts.  

We talked about what we would do next.  First we needed money; we had 60,000 shillings but we would probably need at least 40,000 for the boat ride, and a night at a guesthouse would cost 10,000-15,000, and we needed food.  The rain had let up some; we wandered into the street and rode up to an intersection with what looked like the main street.  Pemba looked dead, like one of those towns in the American West that used to be vibrant but now was dying, buildings boarded.  It reminded me more of the American dying towns than African dying towns, because many of the buildings were multistory (instead of one).  Across the street was the Pemba Crown Hotel (aptly named because no royal ever had slept there), which had been recommended to us by the immigration officials down on the dock, but which cost 10,000 shillings per person, more than our budget, especially because after riding up and down the road, there was no ATM.  There was one in Chake, we heard, about 30km away.  

Well, okay, so no luck there.  We still needed to figure out when we could get a boat to Tanga.  It was raining again; I didn't want to go down to the docks.  It wasn't that far: maybe a quarter kilometre or half a kilometre; I just didn't want to go.  I hate riding in the rain, especially because as I sit there getting all wet and sticky, I just can't help picturing the decline of my things into irreparable sliminess, moldiness, and smelliness.  I know, I know, it's not very tough of me.  I might get used to it if there were dryers...but I won't make any excuses.  Orian said I could wait in the cafe and wait for him.  What a husband!  I'm glad he puts up with me.

Anyway, he went down to the docks, I sat in the cafe, and 30-45 minutes he came back, completely drenched, because while he was out it had starting downpouring.  What he had found out was that there might be more ferries coming into the opposite side of the island from where we were or there might not be.  There might be a ferry to Tanga or there might not be.  

"There is no boat to Tanga," one person said.

"There is a boat, the Fatih, but it only goes once a week.  Maybe it will go this week.  Let me call my friend."  So he called his friend.  "Maybe it will go out Thursday.  But  it doesn't go out from this dock; you must go to the other side of the island."

With that air of uncertainty, we decided to risk going to the other side of the island.  The road took us to Chake, where we could pick up some money.  We found a transport across the street from where we ate breakfast a van that would seat 12 people with an open rack on top for luggage.  Orian and I were the first people on the bus; we negotiated $4 for the two of us and our bikes to Chake.  Eight more people piled in and we set off.  Not bad.  We hit the first bump.  Thump.  There was no suspension.  Okay, that was okay.  One young man drove the bus and the other manned the door, pulling it open and bargaining with potential passengers: destination, price, all shouted out of the door of a van that seemed to only slow when a bargain had been struck.  More people piled in before others climbed out; we ran at an average of 16 passengers.

Orian and I nodded off, tired from a restless night on the ferry.  Thump.  I woke up to a burning sensation in my nose...I had been leaning my head against Orian's shoulder as I slept, and one of the bumps we hit sent my nose into his arm.  Ouch!  I rubbed my nose and looked out the window.  It was raining, but pretty, mist settled in the valleys, different from Zanzibar; hillier.  

We were soon in Chake, got some money at the ATM; though the town did not look much busier than where we had started this morning, it apparently had a hospital, a small airport, and this ATM.  We found a transport to the port we needed to get to, a pickup in which the back had been converted to hold passengers: benches, a roof, and tarps on the side that rolled up and down.  We started with them rolled down, because of the rain, but rolled them up to get the exhaust moving.  As with the van, there was a driver and another man who collected money, found passengers, etc.  Since they couldn't talk directly, the collector communicated with the driver by banging change on the metal bars.  

This truck ran at an average of 20 passengers or so; although this leg of the trip was shorter, it ran longer, because there were many passengers and they were all local.  It was cramped and sticky, but we soon arrived at our destination.  I was happy to get out of the back of the truck; breathing in exhaust was making me feel nauseous.  We unloaded our bikes in an empty dirt lot near the dock, the driver over charged us, and then he took off.  Orian went to ask about ferries while I loaded our bags onto our bikes.  Well, he went to find someone to ask; this town was even smaller than the one we had arrived at Pemba in and was nearly deserted when we arrived.  

There were no boats at the dock and no one had any definitive idea of when one would arrive.  No one seemed to have any interest in the boats, or anything, really.  We found a place to eat, but all they had was chai, which we were not in the mood for.  As we stepped into the restaurant, over the stone gutter, a pipe from the upper floors of the building sputtered and spat out a liter of coagulated blood, which is probably the most disgusting thing I have seen on the trip.  That also turned my appetite from the place.  After wandering around the neighborhood, in which we found tiny shops selling nothing and no food, we decided to go find a guesthouse.  There was one.  We rode towards it.  It was up on a hill, which was well-paved, and had a nice view overlooking a quaint cove that seemed blue even on this grey day, with a canoe carved from a single tree, and a palm tree.

We tried the guesthouse, asking them what their fee would be for the night.  A young man ran off and brought back a laminated piece of paper, with fees in English and prices in U.S. dollars, listing a single room at $10/night*person.  Although it seemed like a decent place, I was tired of being overcharged, especially in a town that obviously had no business.  We tried bargaining--I offered to pay him 15000 shillings a night for Orian and I to both sleep in a single room, with the promise of purchasing meals from him.  He wouldn't accept.  So we left.

We rode back to town and picked up a transport; that was the only guest house in town.  This time we did not sleep; we were too worked up.  All I wanted to do was to get off of Pemba--no one here had been friendly, no one here had been gracious, it was raining, and there was no way to get to Tanga.  Although Orian had thought we could find a local boat, if not a ferry, to Tanga, there were also no local boats, and the people we talked to made it clear that if there was 1. they never took them, and 2. it was forbidden anyway, because there had been an accident.  The only way was back to Zanzibar, and if we could manage to catch it, back to Zanzibar on the very ferry we had come in on...I didn't think I could bear to spend another day on Pemba.

We made it back to the dock by 6p.m.  We managed to find some food at the restaurant at which we'd eaten breakfast; everything else was closed.  My stomach was happy and settled a bit.  It was raining.  We rode down the hill with the river; it wasn't raining hard enough to grow the river that had been there earlier.  Okay.  Although we were told that boarding began at 7 p.m., at that time there was no sign of boarding.  We waited under the eave of a large building as it grew dark, and as it grew dark the rain picked up.  It was cold.  I went to see if there was a place inside the building; it was a large warehouse, where others were waiting out the rain.  Orian and I went in, and I slept on the floor so I would not get too anxious waiting.  

Orian came to wake me up around 10p.m.  I had been asleep an hour or so.  He said that they were starting to load the boat; I said that I needed to get ready.  I mentally steeled myself to go out in the rain, put on my visor so that I wouldn't have rain in my eyes, and headed out into the night.