The Zanzibar Blues

I sit in the shade in the morning and blow upwards towards my glasses. It’s the only thing that helps against permanent fogging after a heavy thunderstorm the night before. 34°, 95% humidity, no wind. On the plus side, the Zanzibari mosquitoes are all non-swimmers and swimming is the only thing you can do in this air.

The roof of my palm leaf hut at Demani Lodge has a leak. Fortunately, right above my head. Saves the morning shower, which is not always available. After half an hour I’m clean – but unfortunately I can’t sleep any longer. The bed falls apart when I push it away. Assembling the bed in the darkness of the power cut is so exhausting that I only wake up after a total of 14 hours.

The beach at Paje seems like the perfect spot for beginners. Standing area approx. one and a half by five kilometres, turquoise crystal water. Even with over 100 kiters on the first day, it was never crowded. Wide snow-white sandy beach. There are hardly any obstacles in the water except at low tide, only further out are there isolated sea urchins between clearly visible coral blocks. The wind blows side-on at 12 to 22 knots every day from mid-December to March. The statistics are not correct at all this year, and unfortunately that’s not all, see new post.

Paje is not even included in my old World Kitesurfing Guide. But there is a lot of construction going on. A few luxury resorts on the outskirts of the village and some small, basic accommodation in the centre merge seamlessly into the desperately poor fishing village of Paje. Most of the accommodation is pumping its income abroad. The few local owners should be supported. Unfortunately, they can only be found locally and none of them have a website. Good starting point for backpackers: the small palm leaf huts of Ufukwe, directly on the beach next to Buccaneer Divers. Single room hut with breakfast $25, double room $40.

The people are incredibly friendly and Swahili is a hilarious language. The sound makes me smile all the time. Of course people beg sometimes. But I don’t know of any other country where this happens so rarely and when it does, it’s very friendly. Not even the taxi drivers try to take off your pants – unless you don’t negotiate at all or negotiate stupidly in a country with an average income of $150.

Zanzibar is ruled by the reincarnation of the holy trinity: electricity, running water, internet. One of the three always goes to heaven, sometimes all three together. When only one third returns, half the people shout “Hallelujah!”. Even with a Zanzibari SIM, it’s impossible to think about working. If the WiFi isn’t on its last legs, the mobile phone is guaranteed to jump from H to E every minute. Not being able to shower for half a day is better, at least then you know what life is like for the Zanzibaris. They get their water from tankers in Paje.

On the third day, Demani Lodge organises a big barbecue, which is attended by half the village. The reggae band practises creative feedback and heavy overdriving on the 10,000 watt system, but this does not diminish their quality any further. Dense Rastafarians sway to the Redemption Song. Afterwards, the local DJ great plays Best of American ShitHop. The sandy floor shakes, the grains jump and the girls show what they haven’t really learnt on MTV. The camp is overflowing, especially with far too many smartly dressed black working girls.

Then the power grid at Demani Lodge finally collapses under the weight of the music system. Now I shout “Hallelujah!”, get the speaker, turn up some old hippie songs and jump into the pool. Bang. Power back on. I sneak away. Writing and listening to good music from even better friends. Not my party at all, not my world at all. I don’t care about people, I’m not interested in their stories. In short: everything that makes travelling valuable is gone. Perhaps magic must first shine through absence.