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To celebrate my birthday in 2018, I decided to travel to Zanzibar with a friend — two little rats caught up in the rat race, desperate for an island escape and my birthday was the perfect excuse.
As soon as we landed, everything felt different. The airport didn’t even have a conveyor belt; our bags were wheeled in on trolleys by airport staff. There was a slightly uncomfortable moment when a local man tried to “help” us withdraw cash, but we declined and moved on. We found our hotel driver without much fuss — he was friendly and chatty — and with Stone Town only 20 minutes away, we couldn’t stop smiling.
Strangely, though, it wasn’t love at first sight. I’d read mixed reviews about Stone Town and wasn’t sure what to expect, but I must admit I felt disappointed. The narrow streets, the heat, the chaos — it was a bit much after the calm we were craving.
By the next morning, we’d decided to leave. We set off to Nungwi in the north, this time in a large, air-conditioned minibus — just the two of us and the driver. It felt excessive.
Arriving in Nungwi was magical. We had booked three nights, and we were blissfully happy to find ourselves in one of the most stunning places on earth. The beach was exquisite — soft white sand, turquoise water, the kind of beauty that makes you quiet for a moment. We snorkelled, tanned, ate, drank, and laughed. It was the perfect birthday… or so it seemed.
Unfortunately, our experience was overshadowed by the relentless beach vendors. Normally, this wouldn’t bother me much, but they were persistent. Every time we sat on the beach to enjoy the sunset, someone would sit next to us. Every walk turned into a conversation we didn’t want – they honestly won’t think twice about sitting next you or walking with you for 20 minutes before finally leaving. I grew snappy. I also saw some form of what I can only describe as sex tourism – a strange pattern of older European women walking hand-in-hand with young Maasai men. Rumour has it that a memoir called The White Masai inspired many of these women to come to Zanzibar for an authentic African fling.
When it was time to return to Stone Town, we thought it’d be fun to take the local bus instead of another private transfer – a more “authentic” experience, we said. As soon as we stepped on, I noticed the floor next to the gearbox had completely rusted through, and I could see the gravel road beneath. The driver casually covered it with a mat. “Haha,” I thought, “here we go.” TIA – this is Africa.
We were assigned the backseat. I say “seat,” but it was really just a wooden plank. I didn’t mind – I even got the window spot. We were the only mzungus (foreigners) on board, but for the first time since we’d arrived, no one seemed to care or pay us any attention.
A little boy peeked at me curiously; I stuck out my tongue, trying to start a game, but he got shy and looked away. My first real attempt at connecting with a local – a complete fail. The bus ride itself was unexpectedly lovely. We passed villages, watched daily life unfold, and listened to local radio crackling through the speakers. The smells of food stalls drifted through the open windows – curious but not quite tempting enough to try. The road through the villages was exceptionally bad, and after an hour of bumping along that plank I was close to tears. If only I’d had a pillow.
By evening, we joined the locals at the Eid celebrations, sampling as much street food as we could manage while children paraded their new outfits in honour of the festivities. It was our last night, and unexpectedly, we weren’t ready to leave. But the rat race called, and we had no choice but to scurry back to where we came from.
