Advertisement
Published: December 7th 2006
Edit Blog Post
Village life
Mid day in Jambiani, from an earlier visit in January 2003. It’s relatively expensive but local buses are inconvenient to track down. I am on a tourist minibus driving across the island of Unguja, commonly known as Zanzibar, to the east coast. Blame the Omanis.
Before I first set foot in Africa I once worked in the Sultanate of Oman. In centuries past, Arab dhows traded in ivory, slaves and later in spices up and down the Swahili coast. Zanzibar fell under the control of Oman in 1698 and grew to become a great seat of power in the region. Out of this shared history, modern Oman has gathered a high percentage of Swahili people. These ‘expatriate’ work mates convinced me that Zanzibar was the place to go. So off I went, without Lonely Planet and no Yellow Fever Vaccination, not quite sure what to expect, to spend my first days off in Zanzibar. That was 1998. This is 2006.
Back on the bus, I find myself accompanied by the usual bunch of green tourists. Never been to Zanzibar, doing what everyone else does, glad to be on the island and away from the dark continent. All travellers dream of Zanzibar and then we dream of going back. It is
For sale
Your private patch of paradise, the beach at Jambiani the gateway to Africa through which passed many famous expeditions of the 19th century and nowadays is a highpoint of more ordinary travels.
There is always a couple who want to go on a day trip to the beach but this bus was not on tour. They will drop you at your chosen accommodation and then return to Stone Town. Halfway across the island and with just their day packs, only then do the day trippers discover the program.
Then there are three Aussie boys on the bus and they ask me about beach bars and parties. I told them there were two or maybe three beach bars where we were going and they looked disappointed. Jambiani is a beachside village on the east coast of Unguja. It is still a quiet place, more suited to couples and mature travellers. The party scene is at Nungwi and that used to be a quiet place too.
The other tourists on the bus I do not recall. They must have been couples, happy anywhere in each others company and the surroundings a pleasant background to their private affairs.
Back in 1998, when I first visited Jambiani, there were
Norwegian castle
On an African beach. fewer than ten places to stay and the most expensive was around 20 dollars. Now there are 20 places to stay, at least five new builds in the past three years and it’s hard to find single accommodation under 20 dollars. A new road is being made inland and parallel to the coast; no more bumpy sand and coral track. Beachfront land is no longer so cheap.
Slowly, the villagers have been selling off small plots of land along the coast to mostly foreign persons. Some of the buyers have innocently fallen in love with the place and others can see an opportunity. It started with small resorts and now private residences are popping up in the gaps. Boundaries are surveyed, a high stone fence is constructed around the back, a stick fence is driven into the sand along the front and the message is clear, no sign needed: ‘bugger off, this is my patch of sand’.
Jambiani now features a little Scandinavian enclave. A beach boy friend of mine married a significantly older Danish woman and they now live together and make love together (I presume!) in a nice little bungalow on the beach. Their neighbours on
one side are Norwegian retirees who stay for months at a time. On the other side and a bit along the beach there’s a little Norwegian castle.
Once a beach boy, now the ‘President of Jambiani’. He doesn’t work, lives in a nice house, has been to Europe and was the only local I asked who was aware of global warming. He doesn’t appear completely content in his new found life but I it could be worse. It can be much worse in Africa and we can’t blame the youth for taking a shortcut to an easy future.
Now my old Rastafarian friend has greater integrity. He has always been in Jambiani, seen the changes and nearing thirty years of age realises he is getting too old to be a beach boy. He has a baby daughter now but hasn’t the money to pay for a wedding. Like before, he stays in the village and just hangs around. Weathered by the burning sun, dressed in hand-me-downs, he conveys total relaxation and calm but did I catch a frown of worry on his face today?
The most unusual new residents on the beach are Palestinians (or are they
Jews in disguise on a Muslim island?). Casa del Mar is my friend’s new neighbour. They bought the coconut grove next to his house and built the resort. In the beginning, like all shrewd business people, Casa del Mar was friendly but today they don’t even say hello. Rastafarians hold their land tightly and Casa del Mar will have to build their staff house elsewhere.
Jambiani is growing like this and it is not alone. From the Philippines to Panama, there are numerous middle class westerners exploring the less affluent regions of the world and finding places where they can afford the beach bungalow of their dreams. Perhaps it is selfishness. Add some capitalism into to mix and many will buy.
P.S. In no way is Jambiani ruined or I would have stopped going. The purpose of this blog is to illustrate a view that we often turn away from.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.065s; Tpl: 0.01s; cc: 6; qc: 45; dbt: 0.0428s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 2;
; mem: 1.1mb