Try it out, it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen

We go out in stormy weather,
We rarely practice discern
We make love to some weird sin
We seek out the taciturn
That’s the way we get by,
‘s the way we get by.


It’s been a busy “winter” here in Tanzania. In recent months I climbed Kilimanjaro, helped get a community health education program off the ground, attended a technology summit in Moshi, turned 24 (woot!), survived TWO separate incidents involving machete-wielding hooligans (…not even going to go into these stories here, if you want a full account shoot me an email), became certified in open water diving, and had tea with a notorious smuggler.

My birthday was a grand time. It just so happened that August 17 coincided with when PCV Chris and Don’s batch of home-brewed mango wine was ready for consumption. We were pretty wary when we first opened the fermentation bucket, but after filtering the stuff through a pillowcase the results were surprisingly decent! It was a good — if hazy – night.




A few days later back at site, one of my good friends and I were wandering around town on one of the island’s many power-less nights. After grabbing dinner at a street meat stand, (no electricity is the ONLY proper way to eat street meat… as it’s best if you can’t really see what exactly it is that you’re subjecting your body to), we headed over to my friend's home to hang out. Sitting on the floor drinking tea were two middle aged men. I recognized one as a local shopkeeper; the other I’d never met, but he seemed vaguely familiar. The mystery man stood up and introduced himself, (for the rest of this post I'll refer to him as Juma). The candlelight magnified massive bags under the man’s eyes, and his face twitched as he spoke. My friend informed me: “huyu ni babangu”… this was his father.

I’ve heard tales of Juma since I arrived on the island. Almost everyone here knows of the man, and many are more than eager to pronounce overwhelming respect or contempt (depending on the person’s social proximity to the Zanzibar Government) for him. Juma, clove “entrepreneur” at large, is a local legend.

Tanzania’s farming system still has socialist leanings, so all farmers must sell their crops directly and exclusively to the Government. In recent years the cost of goods on the islands has risen substantially, yet the selling price for cloves is routinely cut. You do the math.

Back when the serious clove price cuts were starting, Juma and associates started a system of smuggling cloves to Kenya, where they could be sold for much higher prices. Farmers would hide portions of their crops in underground caches, and at night the smugglers would run bags of cloves through the jungle to the shore. The loot would be loaded onto dhows, and then sailed to Mombasa. This was lucrative for a time, but eventually the Man caught wind of what was going on. Jungle runners would be met and shot by police ambushes, dhows were hunted down, caches were raided and farmers arrested. My friend has gone on runs with his father, and he has a couple stories where he just barely eluded capture. Eventually Juma became a marked man by the government, and he was forced to flee. He was one of the few major smugglers who managed to get away. Up until two weeks ago, he’d avoided the islands completely for more than a year. Clove smuggling still goes on here, but these days it’s much more dangerous and less profitable.

As I sat with Juma he was surprisingly candid, especially given the fact that I was a strange mzungu whom he’d only just met. It probably helped that he was hopped up on the East African form of speed, (called mirungi), a fact that became abundantly obvious within minutes. He told me he’d snuck back home for two reasons: to attend a relative’s funeral, and to consult a local witchdoctor on – I’m assuming — serious metaphysical issues far to grim for any mzungu to comprehend. He’d only be in the islands for a few days and doesn’t intend to return until the elections of 2010. His plan is to return to Somalia, where he’s been smuggling refuges out to Ethiopia, Kenya, and Tanzania. (At one point I, perhaps ignorantly, asked if Somalia is as dangerous as the news reports; his answer: “for you.”) Seriously, whenever I think I’m getting used to this place I always get broadsided by an “I’m in Africa” moment. Drinking tea on the floor of a dark room with a tweaked out East African smuggler who views Somalia as a perfectly reasonably place to hang out struck me as one of those moments.

Even with clove smuggling on the decline, clove related violence on the island is still commonplace. A few months back a full-blown shootout took place right in my town. It seems that a group of rowdy mainland soldiers decided to leave the comfort of their portside barracks and have a merry jaunt up north.

They arrived at a farming village and demanded by means of armed persuasion that the entire clove crop be loaded into their truck. After looting the village, the soldiers headed back south to their barracks. Luckily one of the villagers had a cell phone and managed to contact the local police force, (which happens to be based in my town). The police set up a roadblock north of town and when the soldiers arrived a big ol’ shootout occurred. Eventually the soldiers were able to navigate around the blockade and continued, (minus a few men), south. The soldiers and police blasted through town, down to the port. At the port, the soldiers were surrounded at their barracks and they eventually had to surrender. I wish I could tell you with certainty that the cloves ended up back in the hands of the villagers, I really do, but as it is we’ll just have to speculate.

Now, Zanzibar’s economy is driven primarily by cloves, tourism, and foreign aid money. Very little of the latter two ever make it over to my island, so peoples’ livelihood is more or less entirely dependent on the clove industry, (let’s pause for a second and appreciate the absurdity/hilarity of an Islamist island’s primary export being a spice that is best known for its uses with ham and spiced whiskey). The northern district of the island is beyond poor, so losing an entire season’s crop would devastate already destitute communities. It is easily the least developed part of Zanzibar, lacking heavily in proper roads, schools, and infrastructure. This has driven many of the people there to political unrest (and even, historically, Islamist extremism). This has only made the problems up there worse, as the government has become wary of supporting those who almost unanimously back Zanzibar’s political opposition party. It’s not a good situation.

There is some pretty interesting stuff up there though. At the north most point is a colonial British lighthouse, which resembles something out the old computer game Myst, (no, Africa has not made me any less of a geek).




The island’s most spectacular beaches are also all up north. Because the beaches are so difficult to get to, visitors have them almost to themselves. Three weekends ago, us four Island Peace Corps volunteers joined forces with some folk from a local diving company and made the trek out to one of the more remote beaches. As we drove through one of the northern villages, (oddly enough, just as we were joking about how the people up there probably aren’t too keen on American visitors), some young boys on the side of the road pointed fingers at us and started shouting MBAYA, MBAYA! Translation: BAD, BAD! Little kids were literally pointing at us and calling us bad. This happened multiple times with multiple villages. Exactly what we wanted to hear…

At one point we took a wrong turn, (read: our guide took a long turn), and we ended up in a strange forest filled with women hauling logs of wood on their heads. No men, just tons and tons of women. At one point they sort of surrounded us and started chanting and squealing loudly, (which was most likely out of excitement/mockery, although PCV Chris and I did harbor suspicions that this was perhaps a signal to the conspicuously missing men and that impending doom was imminent). A train of the yelling women followed us out of the woods. It was weird.

Eventually, after asking a couple of country bumpkins for directions, we found the correct path to the beach. The beach itself was spectacular, and certainly worth the journey. We had it virtually to ourselves, and we spent the day lounging, swimming, and body surfing. It was a really nice break.




After the day of rest and good company we all went our separate ways. Admittedly, life at my site has been a bit tough lately. My school’s scheduling has been chaotic, the island’s scorching heat has begun to pick up again, and power and water have been consistently scarce, (the island’s power plant decided to blow a hole and spew oil and petrol into the bay… it’s been three weeks and repairs are still incomplete). I am rapidly approaching the 1-year-in-country mark, though, so my spirits are high. On September 21st, I’ll have been in Tanzania for a year. It’s certainly been a year.