Frances stepped into the unknown as a newlywed
The word ‘travel’ sounds immensely glamorous.
When I told friends that I was going to Zanzibar for my honeymoon, then
on to Dar es Salaam to live for at least two years, they visibly
swooned. However, back then at the age of 25, the reality was very
different.
It was 1998 and American
embassy bombings had recently hit Nairobi and Dar es Salaam. If it had
not been for those news features, then I would most likely have had no
idea where I was going. When I said Tanzania, most people misheard and
responded ‘oh, Tasmania, how lovely!’ Having had an extremely happy but
insular and not very well travelled upbringing, I had no idea what I was
letting myself in for.
Frances reading up on her surroundings
Once I had pushed Band Aid images of malnourished African children out
of my mind, I thought that living Dar es Salaam could be like a long hot
holiday in Greece. After all, the white sand beaches were reportedly
lovely. However, after the lightest of research, I soon learnt that it
would not be appropriate to stride about in shorts and vest tops out of
respect for the Muslim culture. I therefore found myself trawling UK
high streets in December looking for a wedding trousseau that consisted
of floaty ankle length skirts and modest cotton blouses. No easy task at
that time of year.
In fact, nothing
could have prepared me for arriving in Zanzibar in early February 1999,
the hottest time of year in coastal East Africa – just two days after
our wintry English wedding which had morphed into a tearful parting from
family and friends. I had been vomiting from food poisoning on the
flight since our stopover in Abu Dhabi, and when I arrived in Zanzibar I
stepped off the plane still wearing skinny jeans and a black roll neck
that I had on when I left London. The heat and humidity hit me like the
opening of a vast oven door. Not to mention the sights, smells and
sounds. It was an assault on the senses. The Abu Dhabi leg of the
journey to Zanzibar had already been an eye opener with passengers
dressed in salwar kameez and niqab veils, laden with bulging plastic
bags that now poured out of overhead lockers.
The Zanzibar arrivals lounge was, in those days, not much more than a
tin hut. Ignoring the lead of sensible backpackers, we had brought
copious amounts of luggage, much of it stuffed into hard shelled
Samsonite cases (a wedding present) which contained enough to tide us
over the first months of our new posting. As well as bed linen and
clothes, I had squeezed in a hardback Delia Smith Complete Cookery book, tea towels, a cutlery stand and photo frames.
Once entry forms had been filled in and passports stamped, I fished out
a change of clothes, only to hesitate at the airport loo doors. I had
no idea which one was the ladies since they simply had the words Wanaume and Wanawake displayed on the doors. Once inside, I struggled to change out of winter boots in a very narrow cubicle.
Meanwhile, my new husband pushed himself through baying passengers to
reclaim our suitcases. Cleverly designed wheels and pull along handles
proved no match for the airport porters who slung our heavy cases onto
their heads and carried them outside into the bright sunshine.
Frances had never felt so far from home
We travelled to the hotel in an open sided minibus amid traffic exhaust
fumes and calls to prayer; the driver hooted his horn persistently as
we dodged donkey carts, cows, bicycles and motorbikes carrying
passengers riding side saddle. The warm breeze was a pleasant relief
from the oppressive heat. Ladies walked along the centre of the road
wrapped in bright African print cloths with baskets or water containers
on their heads and there was the occasional glimpse of the sea.
As we got closer to the centre of Stone Town, roads narrowed and were
lined with tall Arabic style houses. Massive carved wooden doorways
occasionally stood ajar to offer a glimpse of a cool courtyard within.
My husband, who had spent his childhood in Mombasa, said: "This is just
like coming home." I thought to myself: "I have never felt so far from
home."
Come what may, this was the start of our African
adventure, for which I was woefully underprepared. Our three year
posting has now stretched to 16 years. Three children later and we are
still happily living in East Africa, having never left. What was so
unfamiliar at first has now become home. It seems a cliché to say that
every day is an adventure but we have never regretted our decision to
move here. A stretching and broadening experience can never be a bad
thing.
Frances blogs about life in Africa at africaexpatwivesclub.blogspot.co.ke
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