Dalla Dalla to Jambiani

See all photos uploaded by furtwangl

Between trips to Stone Town (the one big town/city on Zanzibar) for film festival-related stuff, we are chilling on the beach in the small village of Jambiani, on the southeast coast of Zanzibar. It’s gorgeous here, turquoise water over white sand, shallow for 4 KM out to the reef, water and air a nice temperature, and we’re staying five nights in a really wonderful little hotel, built in a naturalistic/rustic style, with friendly staff and a great menu (fresh juices to die for). Bliss. See the photos.

Jambiani is a Muslim fishing village that has been discovered by a few small hotels and tourists, but is not overbuilt like we hear a few other beaches on the island are, and definitely does not feel touristy. When you walk out the gate of the hotel to the beach, or onto the one sandy village street, you find yourself surrounded by village life. In the village it’s simple stone houses, little tiny shops with basics (fruite, biscuits, sugar, flour, batteries, washing soap), and people pedaling by on the stalwart black Chinese bicycles they favor here. On both the beach and the road are the usual plethora of unemployed (but friendly and laid back) teenage boys (”you come from which country?”), and children yelling Jambo or, with special excitement to Claire, “Jambo mtoto!” (”Hi, kid!”)

On the beach it’s fishermen with their distinctive outrigger dhow sailboats, which we have sailed on and snorkeled from twice, and more interestingly, women in full, modest Muslim dress tending their “fields” - in the last decade a major cottage industry has grown up here, growing seaweed which is processed into a thickener for toothpaste and other cosmetics. When the tide is low, there are dozens of women out in waist deep water, tending the crop, mostly in skirts and tops but a few wearing full Islamic covering leaving only a slit for their eyes. Apparently it’s possible to earn a modest living - maybe $75 a month - this way, at 200 shillings a kilo for the dry seaweed, and more importantly, it’s a way for women to earn an income directly, a rarity here. (Photos of the seaweed farmers will come next time).

Yesterday morning I took the “dalla-dalla” or shared minibus across the island to go to the film festival. In fact here they are generally not minibuses at all, like they are in Kenya (”matatus”) and other parts of Tanzania, but instead are trucks with passenger areas built onto the back, featuring a basic plank seat around the truck bed inside, covered by a metal canopy strong enough to carry a big load to or from the destination. The dalla dalla was a dollar fifty each way, aned took almost two hours, as opposed to forty dollars for the one hour taxi ride.

I’ve been joking with Lyanda that I’m a dalla-dalla expert now, but mostly it was an interesting experience and it does allow me to impart a few key pieces of dalla dalla knowledge, dear reader, should you require them for your own future dalla dalla riding. First of all, there’s always room for one more passenger - yesterday I counted 26 adults and six kids at our most crammed, including four guys hanging off the back. When you get to the police checkpoint, if you are overcrowded, just before the checkpoint the dalla dalla slows so that the guys hanging off the back - the ones who can’t be crammed inside - can hop down and casually walk through the checkpoint. One hundred meters further on, the dalla dalla pulls over, the guys come loping up and jump on the back bumper again, it’s all very wink wink with the police.

Another important point is the handling of parcels including babies. The dalla dalla is a two-man operation, with the driver and the conductor. The conductor rides on the back bumper, hanging on and yelling for customers on the side of the road by proclaiming the destination (Jambiani!! Jambiani!!). He also taps on the roof to signal the driver to stop or go. He also loads the parcels onto the roof - there seems to be no extra charge no matter the size, one woman had nine large bundles of firewood. But most importantly, he holds your baby while you climb into the crowded dalla dalla and squeeze onto the bench, at which point the baby (or woven palm-frond cage of chickens, or bag of fruit, or other market purchases) is handed down the line of riders, lap to lap, back to you. The babies seem quite accustomed, and the two I passed did not put up any fuss at all as they were passed. The reverse happens as you exit - your baby, or palm crate of chickens, is passed out to the conductor, as you follow, squeezing your way out of the overcrowded but generally jovial interior of the dalla dalla.

Oh, and one final point - an empty dalla dalla never leaves. If you walk to the dalla dalla stand (”standie” – everything erie is given an “ie” on the endie when anglicizedie) and see your dalla dalla sitting empty, or just with a passenger or two inside, you have plenty of time to go have a juice, or maybe some peanuts (”ground nuts”) or even to pee, in the stinky alley behind the market. It’s a long, bumpy ride, best faced with an empty bladder and some good humor.

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