The pirates of Zanzibar

By Cat & Pat Patterson

Ready to ride on, we inspected our map and a page in our guidebook describing boat trips to Zanzibar, the Spice Island. Rather than cycling down the coast and around to Dar es Salaam in six days, we realized that we could visit Zanzibar—if we could find a boat.

Mr. Maphingo, a stately-looking, gray-haired African man at DSL in Tanga Town, said in his wonderful accent, “You should not cycle to Kigombe. You might be robbed.” Then, seeing our expressions, he backed off a bit, “There haven’t been any robberies, but there could be. Don’t take a boat. They, too, are dangerous.”

Cat sent a message via email to Marty, a local farmer we’d met, and asked his advice. Later that afternoon, he responded, telling us to cycle up the coast to a place near his farm called Peponi Resort. “The road is dirt and rock, but safe. They can find you a boat, and it’s a nice place to stay,” he wrote.

At dinner, we spoke with a couple of guys we’d seen at the Internet Shop. They told us that they were construction workers from Ireland.

“We’re here installing a new malaria wing at the hospital,” one said in a thick Irish brogue. It was good to see that some US dollars had made it over there and were helping the African people.

“The equipment and labor have been donated by the Bill and Linda Gates Foundation,” the other one said. “Malaria’s the worst African disease of all.”

Cat told them about the ragged, dirty man we met in Kenya.

“He held his hand out to us,” she explained, “then begged, not for money, for an ass-per-een, an aspirin.” Someone nearby had explained to us that the man had chronic malaria.

Pat called Peponi, and Denys, the owner, urged us to come.

“Sure, we can get a boat, and you will love our place,” he said. “Do you want to camp or stay in one of our Bandas?” That was easy. We chose Banda with a bath.

As we rolled out of Tanga, the road was littered with trash. Dust swirled up as traffic passed. The sign toward Peponi marked the end of what Tanzanians call “tarma,” pavement. Marty had warned that it would be dirt.

A road crew was busy grading, turning the surface into soft sand and loose rocks. Our overloaded bikes dug in, squirreled around, and took all our strength to control. We finally ended up on the footpath that ran close to the doors of rural huts.

As promised, we entered a village at 22 kilometers (Ks) where we’d been told we could find food. We eagerly rode to the door of a small store.

A guy inside yelled out, “No sodas, no food today.”

We were hungry and hopeful that there’d be another store or restaurant. The answer came in the form of another shout. “No more until Pangani.”

That was another 30 kilometers and beyond Peponi.

“I’m burned out, tired and hungry,” Cat said. We both were. Ducking and dodging the rocks had been a big upper-body workout. Struggling, she said, “I can’t go on. I don’t see any sign of a hotel.”

Then, as though by divine intervention, a large sign and arrow pointed down a two-track pathway.

Denys and his wife, Gilly, greeted us.

First things first. We were starving. Gilly quickly made sandwiches and served them with chips and a cold, bitter lemon.

“We started with just a tract of bush here five years ago and have carved out our wonderful little beachfront resort,” Denys said with pride.

After we ate, he led us to Banda Zebra, the last place on the white sand sidewalk and on the beachfront property. It was a primitive, yet comfortable-looking, two-room hut made of woven palm fronds and sisal poles. But it had a toilet, tiny shower, and mosquito netting that draped over the side-by-side twin beds.

Pat dipped in the ocean, then followed Cat into the shower.

We awoke at 6:00 AM, completely rested. It was the first uninterrupted night’s sleep we’d had in weeks.

Denys joined us at the breakfast table.

“I spoke with Mwashondie, our dhow captain,” he said. “He’s sure that he can arrange a pirate’s boat to Zanzibar tonight or early in the morning.”

“Did you say pirates?” Cat asked. “Are the boats safe?”

 “Not exactly pirates, but let’s put it this way,” he said. “They usually run under cover of night, buy duty-free sugar in Zanzibar, and earn 10 percent by cheating the government out of the tax.”

That’s because, he explained, although Tanzania and Zanzibar are one country, they operate as two separate tax districts. Originally, they were Tanganyika and Zanzibar, but were merged as Tanzania in 1964.

“You guys will be illegal cargo on the voyage across and illegal aliens when you set foot on shore,” he said. “Law requires that you have your passport stamped upon entry. When you get to Zanzibar, take a Dalla Dalla, a truck bus, to Zanzibar City and get the immigration stamp.”

“Okay,” Cat said, not at all easy with the prospect. “Even though they aren’t exactly pirates, are you sure we’ll be safe?”

“Safety is probably in the eye of the beholder,” Denys told her. “I’ve never heard of one sinking or any passengers being robbed or hurt during my five years here. It is illegal for them to take passengers as they have sail power only—no motor and no safety equipment.”

That made Cat squirm.

 “What’s a dhow?” Pat asked.

“A five-thousand-year-old Arabic-designed sailing boat. It has a triangular sail that’s shifted back and forth to catch the wind.

That settled, we joined several of the other guests on a snorkeling trip to Sand Island. Cat was nervous. Pat couldn’t wait.

We encountered another delay on Sunday. Mwashondie told us that the boat would leave at 4 p.m. That was daylight, at least. We walked to the beach and met the captain and his crew of two. A language glitch, we think, led to the realization that they were talking about 4 a.m. the next morning. Also, the price of 20,000 Tanzanian shillings for both of us was pushed up to 30,000. Only 10 dollars, but we didn’t like the switch. The captain backed down to the original price but wanted 5,000 shillings for loading the bikes. Okay, 5 dollars didn’t seem worth arguing over. We had a deal, Mwashondie volunteered to come for us at 3:30 in the morning. We were set to go.

At dinner, we met Edwin, a true Afrikaner from Burundi who would also be aboard. He was going to Zanzibar on business, taking the pirate boat because the regular ferry service from Tanga to Zanzibar City had been discontinued.

“My family and I suffered terrible times in Burundi until we finally escaped,” he told us. “I have never taken this boat before, but I think it will be safe.” His words didn’t do much to buoy Cat’s confidence.

Rain pounding down on thatching awoke us at 3 a.m. We lay and listened as it thickened and intensified in volume. Huddled together in one of the beds, we held each other tightly as lightning lit the stormy sky and thunder shook the little Banda.

“I don’t want to go in that boat in this storm,” Cat whispered.

“I think it will pass,” Pat said, trying to bolster her courage. “It’s just a tropical squall.”

She wasn’t convinced. “I see us stuck in that boat, wallowing in stormy waters, soaked and miserable for eight to twelve hours,” she moaned. “Maybe longer.”

“Okay, then. If that’s the way you feel, we won’t go,” Pat answered.

We were just drifting back to sleep when we heard a whisper at the door. Pat stepped outside, where Mwashonidie stood shivering in the drizzling rain.

Pat was worried about getting our bikes down the now-muddy beach.

“Road is okay,” Mwashonidie said. “Hakuna matata, no problem, and I will help.”

Back inside, we talked. Pat felt we should go. Cat remained hesitant and fearful. Reminded of the times she had sailed in the stormy Pacific Ocean, she didn’t want to risk it in this strange place.

“C’mon, you can do it,” Pat told her.

“No,” she said. “I can’t, damn it.”

Pat went out and told a disappointed Mwashondie that we weren’t going. He made a feeble last effort then shrugged and said, “Lala salaama.” (Sleep well.)

Once we began considering our options, we didn’t sleep at all. The big problem was, as usual, money. Down to our last shillings, we had thought we’d find a hotel on the Zanzibar side that would accept one of our credit cards. We had enough cash to pay Denys and Gilly for our stay at Peponi, but little more.

“We can’t just sit here and wait for perfect weather,” Pat said.

Setting off for Dar es Salaam on the bikes wasn’t feasible either. The trip would take four or five days, and we’d go broke in just a day, two at the most. At dawn, we came up with a plan.

We’d take a bus into Dar es Salaam, pick up a new camera and replenish our cash supply. Once the plan was in place, we fell back into each other’s arms and slept fitfully. Cat had a nightmare about heavy seas and a bad boat trip.

Denys was shocked when we came in for breakfast. Pat told him the story and explained our plan. He agreed to keep the bikes in his shop and save the Banda for us when we returned. He even suggested that we might get a ride to the bus station with his cousins, who were heading into Tanga Town that day. Edwin was gone. His need for business had obviously overcome his fear of the weather and doubts about the crew.

We stored the bikes, then threw our light bags into the cousins’ cute little 4WD Suzuki. Hugs and cheek kisses. It was like leaving family again, as they dropped us at the bus station.

The bus was comfortable and air-conditioned, although legroom was limited. We’d picked up soft drinks and had the sandwiches that Gilly had prepared for the boat trip. We were surprised to find that they had provided water and soft drinks for passengers. So, it was off to Dar es Salaam to get money and a new camera to replace the one that was broken on our trek to the top of Kilimanjaro.

On the return bus, February 11, the driver’s assistant made an announcement. It was in Swahili first, followed by, “You may urinate here.”

Most of the passengers did just that. The men walked 20 paces or so off the road and turned their backs. The women squatted in the taller grass with just their heads showing. A crowd of local merchants gathered, selling everything from soda pop and nuts to toys and electronic gadgets. It was obvious that this was a regular pit stop. The overpowering smell in the hot afternoon sun attested to that.

The ride from Tanga to Peponi provided less comfort but included another stop. The bus was a real clunker, the seating was tight, and it was packed full of other sweating passengers. When we spread our legs and bags across three of the small seats, the driver leaned down, winked and said, “You must squeeze in. We’ve a full boat today, know what I mean?”

His mannerisms and laughter reminded Cat of Eddie Murphy.

Most of the same crowd were still there at Peponi. Pat took pictures of them with the new camera. One group was traveling in an African tour truck. They had tents set at the edge of the beach and were doing their own cooking. Most were Austrian or German. They kept to themselves, but four did venture inside for a game of darts and a beer.

Pat again slipped into Cat’s twin bed that night. As they talked, she said that she was still afraid of the boats and their pirate crews. There was no schedule, and Denys wasn’t sure when the next one would leave. We hugged and talked about giving up on the boat and just cycling down the coast.

“I hate the idea of being out there in the dark,” Cat whispered.

“I know. Night is scary,” Pat agreed. “I feel like a kid again, afraid of the demon under the bed.”

 At 6:00 AM, we heard a soft knock and hushed voice at the door. We recognized Mwashondie’s voice.

“A boat leaves soon. You want go?”

The three of us jogged down the beach to Kigome, the tiny mud hut village, and tried to communicate with a man who said he was the captain. Mwashondie argued with him, then said, “He takes you to Zanzibar Island for 35,000 T-Shilling.”

“That includes both of us and the bikes, right?” Pat asked.

The captain nodded, and Mwashondie said, “Yes,”

We shook hands, then hustled back for the bikes and bags.

Gilly had our bill ready and gave us a bag of fruit and two bottles of water. Breakfast wouldn’t be served until 8. We did have a pack of cookies to accompany the fruit. She also gave Cat a Dramamine pill and offered one to Pat. He told her he never got seasick.

As we pushed the heavy bikes through the sand past the truck camp, people peeked out of the tents and seemed shocked to see fully loaded touring bikes. They swarmed out, shouting encouragement and flashing thumbs up.

Mwashondie helped Cat push her bike. He pointed to a boat lying just offshore. Cat felt a shiver down her spine. The boat was constructed of rough-hewn lumber and looked as if it had been around for many of those 5,000 years that Denys had spoken of.

The sun was already hot. Sweat trickled down Pat’s forehead and the middle of his back. He admitted to himself that he was nervous. The 20 or so guys gathered around us all seemed to have evil looks as they stared at the two white strangers and their even stranger bicycles.

We had long ago become accustomed to voices speaking languages strange to our ears, but now it felt like we were being talked about. We couldn’t help wondering about what was being said. Paranoia like that can lead to paralyzing fear, and we knew it.

Pat whispered, “Remember, 98 percent of all the people in the world are good people.”

Cat gave him a sideways glance. “These are pirates. Are they good pirates?”

Mwashondie shook our hands and said, “Safe voyage,” then ran back toward his dhow and waiting fishermen. A slightly sinister-looking guy stepped out of one of the huts and said something that included, “Capitan.”

Then we began putting two and two together. The guys we’d made the deal with were foisting us off onto another boat and crew.

The dhow lay at anchor about 20 yards offshore. The barefoot Capitan walked into the water, then motioned for Pat to bring the bikes aboard.

“Hey,” Cat said. “They were supposed to do that part of the deal.”

Then, as though planned, two muscular young guys appeared and in pidgin English said, “Me carry, Boss, 5,000 T-Shilling.”

Cat objected. Pat negotiated.

“Two bike,” he said, pointing at both. “Two bike, 5,000.” Pat held up five fingers. The two nodded approval, grabbed Cat’s bike, hoisted it above their heads, then waded toward the dhow.

“Your friendly pirates are screwing you,” Cat said.

“It’s only $5.00 and worth it,” Pat retorted. “Our bikes and bags weigh almost 100 pounds. Did you want to carry them?”

As the boys carried the second bike, we waded out and climbed aboard.

“I hope this isn’t a huge mistake,” Cat said.

“We’ll be okay, I know we will,” Pat told her as he mustered his courage and sized up the crew.

It was another of those moments when we each decided to go based on the feeling that the other was okay with it.

Once on board, the captain turned to Pat and asked for 5000 T-Shilling, an advance. We watched as he slipped it into the dealmaker’s hand. So, now we know, there are pirates even among pirates. Yes, we were illegal aliens, and we were going to Zanzibar with smugglers. They were taking us for small dollars because their boat was almost empty on the way over.

As Denys had said, the pirates were taking a chance, too. If they were caught with us aboard, they could be fined or arrested, and the boat confiscated.

That dhow was an amazing craft. The hull was hand-hewn plank, the mast a tree trunk with a sisal pole attached by rope for a crossarm.

When the crew began to hoist the sail using the wooden pulleys, they asked Pat to help. What a great feeling of history came flowing through the rope and into his hands. These workhorses of the Indian Ocean had been moving people and freight for thousands of years.

This dhow, like its early ancestors, was propelled only by the wind. We caught the tail of the morning tide, and the thick, heavy wooden hull was soon plowing its way through rolling seas toward Zanzibar.

Denys was correct. They had no emergency equipment aboard. No radio, no lifeboat, not even a life jacket. If we wanted to sail in a dhow, we’d have to take our own chances and pay our own dues.

The light cargo headed toward Zanzibar consisted of only two bags of rice along with a few tomatoes and greens in a bamboo basket. Cat took a seat on the rice bag.

Pat began to feel a little queasy, found the best spot, and was soon flat on his back on the deck. So much for never getting seasick. He wished he’d taken the Dramamine pill that Gilly had offered.

Le Capitan, the oldest crewman aboard, gave us a sort of smirking smile and said, “I cook now.”

The barbecue was fashioned out of an old car wheel. Le Capitan fired up some charcoal with cotton bolls soaked in kerosene. Then he dipped a large pan into the sea, swished it a couple of times, tossed the water, filled it again, and put it onto the fire. When it was boiling rapidly, he threw in several big handfuls of rice. As he stirred, and it thickened, he added half a bottle of olive oil. Finally, he put another pan on top of the pot and filled it with the coals to keep the concoction warm.

One of the crew members pulled out a stick with heavy fishing line wound round it. “Catch fish,” he said as he played the line out behind the dhow.

Then, the first mate on the tiller shouted out, “Dolpheen.”

We watched as a school of about fifteen of the graceful mammals sped past and played in the wake of the bow. After an hour, the pirate fisherman rewound his line and said, with a shrug, “No fish.”

By that time, we were surrounded only by the sea. No land in sight.

Cat whispered, “Do you think this is the time when they throw us overboard and steal our bikes and bags?”

The thought made Pat sorry that he’d taken pictures and shown them to the crew. Our camera alone may have been more valuable than their dhow.

Le Capitan and two of his six-man crew took shelter in the shade of the rough decking above the bow and nodded off to sleep. Cat sat on the rail and dipped her hand into the cool water as the first mate manned the tiller. Pat lay back on the bags of rice and soon joined the pirates in sleep.

He dreamed of darkness and the terror he’d felt of a monster lurking under his childhood bed. Below the thick plank hull, in the deep Azul Sea, a monster lurked, waiting to devour him. Then it became a nightmare as the crew held him down, tied his hands behind his back, and threw him into the water. There in the darkness of the dhow’s shadow, he waited, eyes closed tightly, knowing that the monster was moving in for the kill.

He awoke abruptly, saved by Cat’s shout of, “Land ho.”

She was the first to catch sight of the Zanzibar coastline. That stirred the crew back into action. Le Capitan uncovered the rice, then cut and garnished it with slices of fresh mango and our bananas. We watched and drooled as the crew crowded around the pan and began to scoop up handfuls of the tasty-looking blend, rolling it in balls and popping them into their mouths. Le Capitan squinted at us, then, with a wave of his hand, invited us to join.

Cat pulled the package of cookies from our bag and offered to contribute it. Capitan tore off the wrapper, took a handful and passed them around to the crew. They wolfed them down quicker than you could say, “Zanzibar.” The rice was satisfying, even to Pat’s queasy stomach.

The Spice Island seemed to pull the dhow toward the shore as we finished the rice and pidgin English/Swahili table talk.

Le capitain burst forth with a sentence in English, “You pay now!”

In his best sign language, Pat made it clear that we’d pay when we and our bikes were safely on the beach. The captain’s smile now seemed friendly.

“Hakuna matata,” he said as the thick wooden bow crunched into the amazing white sands of Zanzibar.

Getting ashore was tough. Cat jumped out into waist-deep water and cut her foot on the coral. Her wallet and passport were completely submerged. Barefoot, she struggled as Pat jumped in and felt the wrath of the rocks and coral beneath on his own feet. The crew passed the bags with the camera and computer to us. Then the two strongest struggled with the bikes, one at a time, above their heads. It was amazing that they got both onto the pristine sand without dunking them into the surf.

As we walked up the white sand toward them, a guy approached and watched as Pat handed the balance, 30,000 T-Shillings, to Le Capitan. He complained and asked for more. In whispered conversation, we’d already decided to pay an extra 5,000. It had been the experience of a lifetime and well worth it. He took the money, winked, and thanked us, then wadded the note up and put it into the watching man’s hand. The man with the wadded T-bill ambled away down the beach.

“Another middleman in a local crime Mafia-style set-up,” Pat said.

Le Capitan and two crewmen pushed their heavy vessel out and swung her around. The other three hoisted her sail while those in the water scrambled aboard. They stood almost as if at attention and waved like old friends who knew they’d just shared a rare adventure with a couple of very rare adventurers.

“I don’t get what you were saying,” Cat told him.

“Remember the first guys we made the deal with?” he asked. “They were the kingpins. They don’t do anything but seal the deal, and they get a piece of it. Then there’s another guy waiting on shore in Zanzibar who holds out his hand and gets another piece. If we hadn’t paid the extra to our crew, the guys who did all the work would have only gotten 25,000 T-Shillings.”

“You know, those kingpins may own the boat, and our pirate buddies just work for them,” Cat theorized.

As we struggled, pushing our overloaded steeds through the soft sand, a couple of guys walked out of the jungle.

The tall one stood in our path and said, “Police.” Then he held out his hand. “Passports.”

Remembering that Denys had warned us, Cat said, “We’re supposed to take a Dalla-Dalla into town for the stamp.”

Pat sized up the guy and decided that he was probably bluffing, trying to get a couple more bucks out of unsuspecting tourists. “Show me your identification,” Pat said, summoning up authority in his voice.

“No identification, give passports,” the guy persisted as he pressed closer. “No identification, no passports,” Pat barked at him as he began pushing his bike.

“What are you doing?” Cat called out. “Don’t get us in trouble!”

“I think this guy’s a fake,” Pat said, then turned to the man and said, “You follow us to hotel. We’ll ask them about identification.”

That stopped them in their tracks. The shorter one in ragged clothing said something in Swahili as they drifted along beside us. When we neared the little hotel, they stopped and watched as their would-be pigeons flew the coop.

“So they weren’t real,” Cat said.

“Not real policemen,” Pat muttered, “but hard to tell if he’s a member of the local Mafia or just a two-bit crook trying to horn in on the action.”

We leaned the bikes against each other, then hugged. We’d done it again. We’d escaped the dangers of a pirate crossing and foiled a crime of opportunity.

There’s something arousing about having flirted with danger together and survived. Perhaps an overdose of testosterone. Maybe just the need for closeness. Whatever it was, it would draw us into each other’s arms once more.

“As your mammy always said, sweetheart,” Cat whispered:

All’s well that ends well.

“Let’s get a room.”