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Published: April 19th 2015
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I have been extremely remiss in not writing about my experience of the spice tour. The Zanzibar archipelago is known as the spice islands, and at one point was the world’s biggest exporter of cloves. The island’s biggest economy now, however, is tourism, so it makes perfect sense to combine the two industries, and give tourists a glimpse of Zanzibar’s spicy secrets. I embarked on a tour of a local spice farm basically as a complete tourist. I tried to convince myself that I was not a ‘wageni’ (Swahili word for tourist) by the fact that I was selflessly accompanying my boyfriend’s mother, who was a real, true, undeniable tourist from South Africa. I was living on the island after all, albeit for less than a month at that point, I could speak approximately 10 words of Swahili, and I was with a Tanzanian friend from work. (It turns out that he was actually from Kenya, which shows you how much I know, but he is still my friend which is the important thing). Ignorant of my internal mental struggles, the Spice Tour guides were friendly and knowledgeable. The tour was smoothly operated, clearly well-practiced, and absolutely magical. A sense of
anticipation overwhelmed me as I walked along rows of very normal-looking plants. What were they? I thought of my mother’s spice rack, the exotic smelling powders and seeds, magical orange and yellow concoctions and seeds which transform rice and vegetables into a world tour for your tastebuds. (Or, in my case, usually the transformation from very bland something into mediocre curry thing, but you know what I mean). I realised that my image of where spices come from was some sort of Aladdin-inspired landscape where genies rode around on their magic carpets picking exotic looking things of orange-coloured trees in the middle of the desert with the Taj Mahal hovering vaguely in the background. In reality, the spice farm more closely resembled a tropical greenhouse at Kew Gardens, except without the glass or the buildings or the swans or the exit into the tearoom. Our friendly guide led us to each tree, shrub or vine in turn, inviting us all to guess what it could be. My boyfriend’s mother scored the most points here, as she has a good botanical knowledge. The only ones I guessed were vanilla and jackfruit. Jackfruit is a large, disgusting fruit, which is the reason
I remembered it - I tried it on Mafia Island once and the memory will stay with me for a long time. The tree, however, is quite spectacular to behold, as the fruits grow the entire way up the trunk, from the ground to the sky, in huge, furry, rugby-ball-shaped monstrosities. Less imposing are ginger and turmeric, which sprout modestly from the ground. The one which really threw me was nutmeg. My experience with nutmeg is taking a small, dried nut from the spice rack along with a miniscule grater, and grating ferociously into the Christmas pudding mix. It was very surprising for me, therefore, to realise that not only did nutmeg grow on a tree, but it didn’t come ready-shrivelled and bottled either. The guide presented us with a small, round, yellow fruit. Once we has all proclaimed ourselves mystified, he cut it open to reveal a shiny brown nut in the centre. Wrapped around the nut was a delicate, hot pink skein, unlike any fruit or nut I have ever seen before. Still delighting in our stumped expressions, the guide pulled off the lacy pink covering and sliced the nut in half, revealing the telltale veins inside. After
being invited to smell and taste it, it finally clicked, and I shrieked out ‘NUTMEG!’. It was like the nutmeg I knew had been pumped up with water to a plump, juicy fruit, and then lavishly gift-wrapped with pink ribbon and a round yellow box. We also smelled and tasted (often without knowing what it was) samples of cloves, cinnamon, pepper, turmeric, ginger, cardamom and countless other tropical spices, fruits and plants. Halfway through the tour, the heavens opened and we were engulfed in a sheet of warm tropical water. Ducking between the trees, the torrent was reduced to a showery trickle, dripping pleasantly down our sweating backs. We managed to clamber beneath a small banda, whereupon we were promptly joined by two other tour parties and several farm workers. There was definitely not enough room for us all, and I found myself pressed uncomfortably against a mud wall, with a steady warm trickle of rain dropping onto my head. However, the atmosphere was very jovial, thanks to two brightly-dressed ladies who worked on the farm, and chattered merrily away to us all in Swahili. A tiny orange kitten completed the party, mewing and winding its way between the ladies’ pink and yellow skirts. Eventually the rain eased off, and we were treated to a veritable banquet of freshly picked fruit, including pineapple, mango, bananas, oranges and coconut. Feeling full of new knowledge, wonder for the natural world, and of course fruit, we started to head back to our taxi. But there was more in store. Out of nowhere, battalions of farm workers began to attire us with hand-weaved crowns, necklaces and bracelets, laced with fresh pink hyacinths. In the confusion, a small but muscly man began to wriggle his way up a tall coconut tree, booming out a stunning rendition of a well-known Swahili song. Covered head to toe in tropical plants and laden down with the spice samples, we stood entranced. Eventually we were allowed to leave, and our only regret was that we didn’t bring enough cash to buy their entire stock of beautifully packaged spices and hand-made soaps.
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