Posted by: Larzizou | December 29, 2007

Stone Town (Zanzibar Island), Tanzania

On our way to Zanzibar Island, in the ferry, everybody has a proper seat…but me.


Speaking of seats, until then, the travel in the truck has been made easier (i.e. laying) by the many available seats. It is in Zanzibar that I learn why instead of the 27 passengers there should have been, we are only 16. The trip started two weeks before I joined it, in Rwanda and Uganda. What happened there ? Near Nairobi, the driver did not swerve to follow the road and drove off a cliff. Blood everywhere and bad injuries, although no fatalities fortunately. Eleven people had to stay at the hospital in Nairobi. So I joined a new truck (nicknamed Sparky), with fewer people, a new tour leader and a new driver. You (mum and dad) understand that this is not something I could have divulged before. Neither the fact that every year, overland companies deplore a few deaths from frontal truck collisions or so I was told (to be honest, this is something I learnt later on). People have been surprisingly very quiet about it.

Back to the pictures. Stone Town is 90 percent composed of Arabic Muslims, tell me some of its inhabitants. The architecture shows.


Visit of the city and shopping.





That night, we go to the fish market, an overcrowded place on the shores with hundreds of stalls selling fish and shellfish skewers. I indulge (and will later regret). Here, sugar canes being crushed.


The fish market is full of tourists but also attracts locals.


Later on, we are having a drink at a bar nearby. Some (NOT ALL) of the people worth mentioning are Pippa (at the front looking back, in blue or green), Grant (at the front looking back, a tattoo emerges from his black t-shirt) and Hungritch (with the pink polo and red eyes).


J.T. (the guy) and Rhiannon (the girl, named after a song). He from New Zealand, her from Perth, Australia. For the 10 days we have been traveling together, I have not been able to understand a single word he has been uttering (because of his accent). They are very noisy at night.


The following morning, we endure a lightly cultural tour, which starts with a visit of the slave market.


This cell is where up to 75 slaves to be sold were detained. Basically, a hole in the ground, the wholes covered with concrete. Not being able to breathe, we (no more than 20) cannot stay there longer than a few minutes.


The public place where slaves were chained, shown and sold.


We end the morning with a spice tour, in the wood…


…where kids garden…


…pineapples grow from the ground…


…some plants (the ” touch me nots” ) cannot be touched without without withering(temporarily)…

…durians stink as always (for those of you who ignore what durians are, click here, and for those of you who ignore what durians are AND who are lazy, directly go to the “Flavour and Odour” section)…


…the ill-named “50 schillings man” (we gave him much more) climbs on palm trees to cut off coconuts…


…and some people are natural born trendsetters…


…and some others are simple followers, like Scott…


… Grant…


…or me.




  1. il fait mal ton blog renardo!
    je suis epate par tes prouesses d’upload de photos, de videos, et le texte pondu par Hemingway lui meme, tout est fabolous..
    si tu arrives a tenir un an comme ca on va se regaler!
    yuri, a Calafate, de retour du glacon geant.

  2. your sight is beautiful! and witty. i’m glad i can keep track of your whereabouts now. be safe.

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