Zanzibar: “The Magic Island & its Ghosts “ by ANON

I was awakened very suddenly in the early hours of the morning. I sat up in bed and saw a tall figure standing nearby, looking eastward, dressed in a light brown burnoose with its hood up, concealing the face. I tried to call out but my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth and my limbs were paralysed with fear. The apparition slowly disappeared: but looking down the room, there it was again, standing in the same way looking to the east. Again it gave way to-nothing and vanished and only then was I able to move."

This experience was described to friends by Dr Spurrier, a respected British medical doctor who was staying at Dunga Palace in December 1895. Dunga has a strong reputation for being haunted. One apparition which has frequently been seen is that of an Arab lady walking through the long rooms at dead of night, followed by a black dog. Also, the sounds of rattling chains and of heavy objects being moved about are said to have been heard.

The Lord of Dunga, Mohammed bin Ahmed el Alawi, was descended from a line of rulers who may have begun with Hasan bin Abubakar, a Persian of the 13th century who is mentioned in the Kilwa Chronicles. His descendant, Queen Fatuma, married an Arab from the Hadramaut, called Alawi.
She had a palace on the site of the present day House of Wonders, next to the Old Fort, in the Stone Town. Her son Hasan became King around 1828 and when the Omani Sultan Said took control of Zanzibar, Hasan had to move to Bweni, near Dunga, where he was allowed to rule on condition that he gave half of the taxes he collected to Seyyid Said.

Mohammed inherited from his brother Hasan in 1845 and was made of stern stuff. He used the local people's unpaid labour to build the palace, which took about 10 years. He lived there until he died in 1865. His 15 year old son Ahmed was recognised as a ruler in his place and moved to live in the Stone Town of Zanzibar, where he shortly died of smallpox, in rather suspicious circumstances.

A friend of mine, Yoland Brown, was born and brought up in Zanzibar. She lived in the Mambo Msiige building, just to the south of the Serena Inn, when she was a child. Her father, William Frederick Waddington, was the Port Officer in Zanzibar from 1946 to 1958. The Mambo Msiige building was built around 1847 by a prominent Arab and its name means, "Don't copy me, friend"! In 1864 it was rented and later sold by Sultan Majid to the UMCA, the Universities' Mission to Central Africa. They sold it in turn to the British Foreign Office in 1874 when it became the residence of the British representative to Zanzibar, the first of whom was John Kirk. From 1918 to 1924, the building accommodated the European Hospital, which was set up to take care of casualties of the First World War.

After this, the house was occupied by Government Offices. Yoland's mother, Dorothy Betty Waddington, was Tourist Information Officer in Zanzibar because of her knowledge of Swahili and her tremendous interest and consequent knowledge of the people and customs. She never found any bones in the garden! However, she did see a ghost, twice, of an Arab gentleman who appeared at the side of the bed. The first time he looked quite benign and she woke her husband who said, "go back to sleep -he has been here before"!

The second time the man appeared at the bottom of the bed and had a very malevolent look - Betty did not wake her husband again, in case she got another flea in her ear. By coincidence, she happened to be visiting the palace a few days later and told the Sultana about her experience. The Royal Personage was not the least bit surprised and said there was a little girl who walked down a particular passage in the palace and everyone had seen her. The Sultana said Yoland's mother should speak to the ghost and not be frightened, but he never appeared again.

At Mbweni Ruins, just five miles south of the Stone Town, the ghost of Caroline Thackeray, a spinster lady who lived in Zanzibar for 49 years, is said to walk near the ruins of the school for freed slaves where she was headmistress. She retired to Sir John Kirk's house in the neighbourhood, and died there in 1926 at the age of 83. She is buried at St John's Church nearby. There is now a hotel in the grounds of the ruins and none of the staff will go near the ruins at night.

One night, my children and I were staying at Mbweni, before the hotel was opened. We saw a light shining in one of the windows of the Industrial Wing of the ruins. After a certain amount of daring and cajoling, we took a torch and made our way inside the tall walls and up the collapsing stairs, only to find that our "ghost" was just the full moon, shining with amazing brightness, right through two windows opposite each other.

Recently, an askari reported seeing the figure of a tall Arab man, standing under a large mango tree below this wing above the beach, gazing out to sea; he slowly dissolved into nothing. A few days later, the askari, an old man, died of a heart attack. The Arab man has also been seen by others. There was an Arab mansion on the site of the school when the Universities' Mission to Central Africa purchased Mbweni Point shamba, to build a village for freed slaves, in 1871. This mansion was incorporated into the school but became dilapidated with the rest. The ruins are being restored with a view to returning them to their former state. Hopefully then the ghosts may disappear!

In 1885, Seyyida Salme, a daughter of the founder of the Albusaid Sultans, Seyyid Said, who had eloped and married a German trader, Heinrich Ruete in 1866, returned to her homeland to try to force a reconciliation with her family. Her efforts were hopeless but while in Zanzibar she visited her birthplace, Mtoni Palace. She was deeply shocked by the ruin and decay into which the lovely old buildings had fallen.

As her children ran about, laughing and chattering with the accompanying German officers, Salme went into a kind of trance from which she could see the figures of the former inhabitants coming forward from every slanting door and collapsing heap of beams. For a while she was transported from the depressing present and her mind lived the beautiful years of her youth.

This kind of experience happens to all of us quite often in Zanzibar, where the past seems to melt into the present and the dead seem to move freely amongst the living, sometimes leaving a cool breath of air and a scent of spices as they pass.
Zanzibar is truly named "The Magic Islands".

The Dhows of the Monsoon

At Christmas time, in the harbour of Zanzibar in the early 1960s a great fleet of huge dhows would ride at anchor. They were the biggest wooden boats that I had ever seen. We would sail past them with our little fourteen foot dingy taking in their strangeness and gazing at their vast solidness in awe. These were real vessels of the sea. Festooned with ropes made of sisal, their masts slanted at an angle, they spoke of journeys by men who knew the sea like no others. Sometimes I would see lithe sailors shimming up the masts with their bare feet. We always complained about the smell of the dhow fleet. Later I learnt that they used fish oil to season the wood. Aging fish oil is not recommended for its smell.

Off the stern of the boat hung a large box, big enough for a person to sit in. It had a hole in the bottom. It was the toilet, called the thunder-box. Strange inscriptions and twirling designs were carved as decorations along the hull and over the stern hung the red flag of the Sultans of Zanzibar. On their prow would hang an oculus or talisman. The oculus is the ‘eye’ of the boat and was often in the form of a large painted eye, rather like a Cyclops eye from Greece. No human or animal replications were portrayed - as the Koran dictates.

I knew that this dhow fleet plied an ancient triangular route, from India to the Arabian Gulf and then on to the East African coast. India was the connection to those trading countries even further east. From ancient times the monsoon winds had made this route feasible and as boats become more sophisticated its importance grew. The monsoon winds were not reliable a little further south than Zanzibar and our harbour, tucked into the western coast of the island, was very protected when the northern monsoon was blowing.

The Arab dhow captains were superb seamen. In 1939, Australian adventurer, Alan Vickers, travelled on a dhow from Aden to Zanzibar and back. In his book, ‘Sons of Sinbad’ he recounts how he found a nakhoda or captain of a boum dhow and arranged his passage south with the north-east monsoon on a boat called The Triumph of Righteousness. Alan believed he was living through the last days of sail. He tells of the journey and it is a window into the past. With western eyes he found the filth the accumulated on the overcrowded main deck rather horrible but recognised that these sailors were tough men, ‘the constantly cramped quarters, the crowds, the wretched food, the exposure to the elements, the daylong burning sun, the nightlong heavy dews, if they continued to be disadvantages, were far offset by the interest of being there….’

You were always aware of the monsoon in Zanzibar. There was no summer and winter on the islands. It was one monsoon or the other or the time in-between when the rains came. The northern monsoon blows from late November to February and the long rains, or masika, come in March as the winds become variable. If you were a girl child born during the rains, you could be called Masika – born in the time of the rains.

April is the start of the south-west monsoon. This wind is more violent during the months of June and July so the boats leave with the first winds or stay to the last weeks of the monsoon. It was hard to get insurance for your boat if you left during June and July when many seasoned dhow captains would stay put in a safe harbour. By late September the winds become variable again and Zanzibar experiences the short rains or vuli. Monsoon is a word that English has copied from Arabic.

They were not called the ‘trade winds’ for nothing. Zanzibar was a trading nation, perfectly positioned and blessed with the richness of its spices and the produce of the African hinterland. In the 1800s when Zanzibar was the centre of a maritime commercial empire, the cargo used to be gold, gum copal, ivory and slaves. In my days it was spices, predominantly cloves, mangrove poles, Persian carpets, dates and dried fish that plied its way to and from Arabia. In the narrow streets of Zanzibar’s Stonetown could be found a cornucopia of riches. Small open fronted shops or dukas were filled with wares from east and west. The shopkeeper sat cross legged at the shop front on the elevated concrete ledge talking to his neighbours. On the main street were the gold and silver merchants with worked semi-precious stones from Ceylon and India.

My father wanted to buy some Persian carpets directly from a dhow captain so he put out the word and a little while after the dhow fleet arrived from the Gulf my mother and he went on board to look at the cargo of Persian carpets. Carpets were not discussed until much strong sweet coffee or kahawa was imbibed and general pleasantries had been exhausted. ‘The red dust of the desert was still in the carpets’, my father said, ‘each one that they brought up from the hold seemed more beautiful than the one before. It was impossible to choose!’

The dhow fleet were part and parcel of what Zanzibar was in its hey day, when the Omani Sultans ruled and controlled the east African shores. When Sultan Said bin Sultan of Oman and Muscat had moved his capital to Zanzibar in 1840, he travelled with his fleet of dhows to take possession. His family would rule Zanzibar till 1963 and the revolution that ousted the newly independent Zanzibar. Sultan Jamshid escaped by sea in a steamship while many other Arab Zanzibaris did not. The story goes that some other Arab people were forced to embark on overloaded and under provisioned dhows and sent to sea. The revolutionaries wanted them to go back to Arabia. Some of those dhows did not survive the trip.

Recently someone told me of a story he had heard while travelling down the East African coast 50 years ago. The first mate of a large cargo boat woke the captain early one morning and asked him to get to the bridge urgently. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘look at our bow!’ There over the bow was draped a huge sail. Both realised what it was: the tremendous triangular sail of a dhow. ‘Get if off,’ the captain replied,’ throw it away’. The cargo boat had ploughed down a dhow in the night. They did not turn around to see if they could find any survivors clinging to bits of wooden hull. It was just one more hazard of the open sea.

Some dhows have been converted to motor and still trade along East Africa. Still trading and still involved in smuggling. But the ancient stories of the dhow captains’ bravery are mostly lost to us. The great dhow fleet under sail travels no more. The beauty of the lateen sails on the horizon is now a mirage from history.

Of Leopards, Zanzibar and Witches

The Zanzibar Leopard in the museum in Stonetown.

When I lived in Zanzibar in the 1960s, I was told that leopards were still found in the island’s heartland. Zanzibar is a small island, off the eastern coast of Africa, measuring approximately 85 kms by 38 wide. It is tucked into the waist of Africa, south of the equator and right in the path of the great Indian Ocean monsoons.

The remnant thick wetland reserve was called Jozani Forest and it was there that the endangered leopard made a last stand. I visited Jozani Forest with my parents and remember the huge trees hanging with lianas and orchids. My mother loved orchids and we drove through the forest in the back of an open jeep looking for them. But of the secretive leopards, there was only talk. Nowadays tourists flock there to see the delightful endemic Red Colobus monkeys.

In the Kiswahili language, a leopard is ‘Chui’. Maybe this word sounds like the animal’s cough. The Zanzibar leopard is known as ‘Chui Konge’ and ‘Chui Kisutu’. Kisutu means a cloth used during a wedding – which might have some connection to the fate of leopards in the past.

The Zanzibar leopard is regarded as a regional sub-specie of the mainland leopard, separated as the seas rose at the end of the last glacial age, about twenty thousand years ago. Due to its small population it has suffered from what scientist, Ernst Mayr, called the ‘founder effect’. Isolation let to a sharp decrease in genetic diversity and certain traits were lost while others were emphasised. The Island’s leopard was smaller in size and its spots had evolved to be smaller and more widespread.

In colonial times, until 1963, the Zanzibar leopard was protected and could only be shot with a permit. You could hunt pigs as they were vermin, but not leopards. Meanwhile, it appears that leopards had a very bad reputation as agents of bad witches. They purportedly strengthened the witch’s powers. The belief was that the animals were captured and then used by these ‘leopard-keeper’ witches against their victims. The locals believed that they would be sent out on malevolent errands under cover of darkness. Magic and spirits were involved. And fear too of course. Stories of ‘white’, that is ‘good’ witches, and ‘black’ witches abound in the history of Zanzibar and the neighbouring island of Pemba.

The policy of leopard protection changed after the violent 1964 revolution that ousted the new independent government. A campaign was started by the revolutionary government to eradicate them. The campaign seems to have been closely allied to witch hunting. Leopards were now seen as worthless and a threat and were actively hunted even after President Karume’s assassination in 1972.

In the 1990s there was an effort to start a conservation program to rescue the leopard and once more it was protected. Too late! It was decided that the population was so small, if it existed at all, that its long term survival chances was non-existent. I cannot help thinking that even if they could conserve a few, it would be worthwhile. Surveys and camera trapping in 1997 and 2003 have not revealed any animals. Although reports of sightings continue in the south of the island, researchers seem to be ambivalent as to whether any animals remain.

A solitary stuffed Zanzibar leopard remains in the Palace Museum on the Island. It crouches down in a defensive position; fangs bared in defiance, half hidden in undergrowth. It would be satisfying to think that as such it survives in remote pockets of its tropical island home. Instead, I fear that this is another story of loss; loss of wilderness and the rich pantheon of nature.

The Zanzibar leopard has slipped away into extinction.

A Question of History

If you visit Zanzibar today as one of the thousands of tourists now pouring into this small island off the coast of East Africa, you will want to visit the sights. One of the top activities, as listed in the Bradt Travel Guide, is to see the places that record the history of slavery on the island. One of these localities is the Anglican Cathedral in Stone Town, the capital of the island. Zanzibar is a Muslim country, whereas the mainland of Tanzania is predominately Christian. Over 95 percent of the population of one million follow Islam and the 48 mosques in the town testify to its long standing influence.

Slavery was finally outlawed in 1873. When the slave market was closed, the Anglican Christian Mission was given the site by a local Hindu and Sultan Barghash donated the tower’s clock. There is more symbolism in that the altar is the reputed site of the slave whipping post and the wooden crucifix in the nave is made from the tree under which David Livingstone’s heart was buried in Zambia.

Nowadays there is a statue outside the Cathedral, a memorial to those thousands of slaves that were traded through Zanzibar. You will be asked, when you arrive, to pay three US dollars to a guide and he will explain the horrors of slavery. Tourism is providing many jobs for locals. The enthusiastic guide will take you to the building opposite the Cathedral, St Monica’s Guesthouse, and show you the cellars there. The latest Bradt Guidebook is most eloquent:

‘Its basement provides one of Zanzibar’s simplest, but arguably most moving and evocative, reminders of the dehumanising horrors of the slave trade … (they were) crammed five deep on the narrow stone slabs and shackled with chains which still lie there today.’

Countless websites and blogs echo this story and recount how people weep when they hear the stories of this basement.

However, it is not true, it is all a fabrication. The St Monica building was erected in 1905, more than 30 years after slavery was abolished. The cellars were used by the missionaries for dry storage of medicines in the tropical climate. But the story lives on in the streets of Zanzibar. Fundamentally, stories about slavery in Zanzibar are historically correct. David Livingstone’s vivid accounts of the effects of slave raids into Africa’s heartland alerted the British population to this ghastly trade. Long tentacles of traders worked their way as far as Malawi, Botswana and Zimbabwe in the need to find more victims. And nowadays British people like to feel good about the issue when they remember the work of people such as David Livingstone and Wilberforce.

Yet again, it is more complex than that. On one telling of history, Britain grew wealthy on the back of the slave trade. Cotton from India was made into cloth in the new industrial mills in the Midlands. British ships traded these goods into West Africa for slaves. The slaves were taken in dreadful circumstances across to the Caribbean where they worked the plantations of sugar cane. This is the infamous ‘Middle Passage’. The sugar was then traded back to Britain, to a country that was increasingly drinking tea and sugar. Millions died in this triangular trade. British ships were estimated to be responsible for shipping 2.5 million slaves out of the 6 million transported in the 18th century. The leaders and the population of Britain hardly reacted. Did they know? Did they care? Yet by the end of that century they stopped their trade in slaves. Their motives for doing so have been questioned.

So we come back to Zanzibar. Does it matter that there is a small untruth in the telling of the tale of slavery? Prof. Abdul Sheriff, an expert on the conservation of Stone Town, now a UNESCO World Heritage site, says that slavery has become a product to sell to the tourists. But it goes further than that. The question of slavery, and who was responsible for it, has riven the island for 50 years. It has split the population into racial lines and ultimately it became one of the reasons that over 10,000 people were massacred in 1964.

As democratic institutions were designed for Zanzibar in the late 1950s and the first years of the 1960s the political parties that arose were loosely divided on racial lines. Those of more African heritage felt more dispossessed of power and joined the ASP. Those with more of an Arab background tended to support the status quo, the Sultan and supported the ZNP coalition. However, it was an old socially inclusive Muslim state and most people were very mixed in their racial lineage. They were Zanzibaris.

The British encouraged parties to develop that represented different interest blocks so there was a choice in the democratic process. This caused the parties to try and differentiate themselves. So the ASP brought up the issue of slavery and the Arab involvement in the trade, over 80 years previously. Stories of terrible acts were spread around, rumours of what might follow if the ZNP won were started. One of the stories my father told me: ‘it was said that some Arab men were arguing about how a baby lay in the womb, head up or down. They could not decide, so they called up a pregnant slave and using their swords cut her open to see who was right’. A ghastly fantastical story.

And the hatred engendered would be visited on the innocent people who had nothing to do with slavery. Independence in December 1963 from British control was short-lived. In January 1964 a revolution resulted in the genocide of tens of thousands of Zanzibari Arab people, Arab looking people, small merchants, land holders or people that got in the way.

The successful revolutionaries organised themselves into the Revolutionary Council and proceeded to abolish democracy and created a dictatorship. The quality of life, for those citizens who chose to stay in Zanzibar, became appalling. A police state evolved, spies abounded and all land and property was nationalised. Over forty years later, times have changed and a multi-party system is working again. However, the issue of, what I might call, ‘Arab guilt’ continues to play its part. In order to acquire legitimacy, the Revolutionary Council has written into history the justification of the revolution. It has portrayed the revolution as a great liberalising event that gave the population a better life. The more the facts of this purported ‘better life’ that they delivered are criticised, the more they have to portray the time before the revolution as terrible and the influence of the Zanzibar Arabs as being of a ruthless and colonial nature.

So we come back to the slavery story. It carries behind it other meanings. The more the current powers show you how terrible slavery was and connect it to the old regime, the more it is apparent that it was right to get rid of (and kill) the Zanzibari Arab descendents in the 1960s. I think this crazy logic is repeated across the world. We seek to justify the acts of history in many ways. Only in rare instances do we, as a human race, try to make amends. And one of those occasions was the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa where victim and perpetrator faced one another and both wept for what had happened.

So, in Zanzibar, one day an account should be made of those innocent people who died in the genocide that swept across that beautiful tropical island. And the survivors, who fled to the mainland, to Oman, to any country that would give them sanctuary, still carry the sadness of their loss. No one has been called to account. No mass graves are recognised to give people proper ceremony. It is sadness that still haunts many Zanzibaris.

After all, remembering the cruelties of slavery is important, but using it to justify a revolution where thousands of innocents were massacred is another. We should be wary of how history can be manipulated to enhance power of current governments.

The Truth by Aman Thani Fairooz 1995

THE TRUTH
(TO REFUTE FALSEHOOD)
(Note, Ed.this is a very short excerpt from Aman Thani Fairooz's book about the old political world of Zanzibar and about his horrifying time in prison. It is an important record of events by a man who suffered much for his homeland. The 86 page book is available on other websites. )
http://www.fortunecity.com/victorian/abbey/313/truth1.html

PREFACE
My gratitude to the Most Merciful God who has enabled me to write this little book in which I have tried to describe the events which took place in our country, Zanzibar. In particular I have concentrated on what happened to me and what happened to my fellow countrymen as a result of what is called the Revolution which befell our country on 12 January 1964. What I am writing about is what I myself know. Without there is much more that I did not know. It is my hope that there will be others who will be able to relate what happened to them or what they saw was being done to others.

I am doing this for no reason other that relate the truth regarding what took place in our country, so that my fellow citizens (and our Tanganyikan brethren as well as the whole world) and especially the younger generation, may know the facts regarding the so-called Revolution of Zanzibar. If in the relating of my story I happen to mention names of individuals it would be in the course of narration and illustration, not for the purpose of ridicule, sarcasm or cynicism. My aim is to tell the truth of what really happened. I will not hesitate to tell the truth, for that is my aim. For too long the truth has been suppressed. and distorted. With that I take full responsibility for what I herein write.

It is important I should request my readers to concentrate on my story, for it consists purely of undoubted facts and only facts. I beg them not to worry overmuch about my style of writing and about the language used or arrangement of chapters etc. for I am no writer.

If any question arises or anything is obscure, I am the one who should be referred to for clarification. I shall try my best to clarify any riddle that may occur. If I fail I will not be ashamed to confess my inability and to ask for forgiveness. Only God is perfect.

May God enable this humble effort of mine to receive a wide readership and appreciation so that the wrongs herein described may be righted. For the greatest good is to repent and to correct the wrongs. May Allah be our Guide and Protector.

Education before the 1964 revolution
For both nationals and aliens, from class one to eight education was free for all. Every pupil had a desk by himself, and every pupil was provided with free exercise books, free textbooks, pens and pencils, ink pots and ink, even blotting paper was provided free (in the days before ballpens had come into use.) Every Friday pupils were provided with free soap for washing their clothes. In rural schools pupils were provided with breakfast - beans and porridge - before they entered their classrooms.

In the '50's parents were expected to supplement a token sum for the pupils from class seven to class twelve. The payment was minimal and not every parent was obliged to pay. Most parents did not have to pay a single cent. Those who paid had to pay from five shillings to twenty shillings every term of three or four months.

Before a decision was made whether a parent should or should not pay there was a process to be followed. The parent had to fill a questionnaire regarding his income, his employment, and the number of his dependents. To ascertain the correctness of the information given the filled form was sent to the Sheha (headman), then to the Mudir (the area administrator). After this the form was sent to the District Commissioner. After this exercise decisions were made whether to pay or not to pay, and how much for each applicant.

From this sort of arrangement more than 70% of the parents were not obliged to pay, and their children received education absolutely free. Twenty per cent paid reduced fees, and only 10% paid full fees which was less than 200 Shillings a year. Those who paid full fees were almost entirely from the Indian community. The so-called Africans and the so-called Arabs were not in that category.

The important thing about education was not so much to pay or not to pay. The vital thing was the quality and type of education available in those days of pre-1964, and what became available after 1964. That is the deciding factor which we have to face. If what is branded as "Free Education" means what we are seeing today - schools having no desks, children having to squat on bare earth, no books to read or write on, and above all no qualified or trained teachers - that sort of education is indeed too costly even if free. It is the condemnation of generations to come. Our Zanzibari children have developed into hunchbacks having to double-bend in order to write on the floor. When they return from school they look like grave-diggers, so dusty and dirty are they after a whole day of crawling on bare earth in their classrooms.

Recollections of Zanzibar in the 1950s and early 1960s

by Abdulrazak Sheriff Fazal.
read the full account at: http://www.dewani.ca/af/

“Zanzibar was just out of this world. It was a godsend gift. Those who had experienced its superabundance and easy life shall vouch for it. The locals or indigenous Zanzibaris were God fearing and honest people. The rapport between members of various communities and the brotherliness that prevailed was distinctly exceptional.”….

I was born on the 18th of February, 1948 into a highly religious and orthodox family of Indian ancestry in that tiny island of Zanzibar off the eastern coast of Africa. My father was also born in Zanzibar in 1898 and so was my mother, in 1911. I therefore consider myself a pukka Jangbario (Zanzibari) though my command of the language Kiswahili is substandard unlike the other Khoja Ithnashris who had inhabited the island.

Zanzibar with its insular position was a prosperous place where the Omani settlers had imposed their Sultanate but owed allegiance to the British Colonial Government. The one sad aspect of Zanzibar had been its cruel slave trade that scarred an otherwise remarkable history. The once 'slave trade market' by the side of the Protestant church at Mkunazini and those isolated, scattered and ruined graves(makaburini) at several spots in the stone town bore testimony to the tragic past. Perhaps the Zanzibaris' notoriety for their fixation with mashetani (ghosts) could be ascribed to such spirits haunting around there.

The Portuguese had also earlier ruled the island as evidenced by their old fort. Zanzibar fascinated the Indians from Kutch and Kathiawad, and in particular the Khojas who emigrated in hundreds by dhows in the nineteenth century. At a later stage even the Aga Khan, H.H.Sultan Mohamed Shah, patronized the island and made it his headquarter for a brief period of time in the 1940s. My ancestors being Khojas had landed in Zanzibar from Jamnagar as Ismailis as far back as 1850s. Other initial settlers were the Hindu Bhatias who provided merchandise and financial acumen. …..

Zanzibar was extraordinarily different. Its narrow streets laid with stone houses adjacent to each other and almost clinging to the opposite ones, formed an unusual sight. The hustle and bustle in its streets and bazaars created buzz and livened the atmosphere. The tinkling bicycle bells sent aside passersby as cyclists made their way through those narrow lanes. The milkmen knocked the doors of the residents and delivered milk that had to be filled through a tap from the bulky churn placed on the back of their bicycles.

On the way people would be seen drinking kahawa (black coffee) which was habitual of the Zanzibaris. The Washihiri (Yemeni) kahawa sellers with their brass dele (cone shaped containers) went around juggling and rattling their small cups. They had peculiar and methodical way of pouring coffee into those cups. The Zanzibaris were pious and highly affectionate people, and their impeccable life style was an exemplar to the rest of the world.

There were several Asian communities in Zanzibar and they had their own places of worship. What was striking was the spectacle of their processions such as Ithnashris' julus, Ismailis' dhan dhan, Hindus' marriage or Goans' funeral procession. Also striking were Zanzibar's eateries and some of them still form part of my consistent reminiscence. Those masis' bajia, Abedi's mix, Adnan's mbatata (potato) and Maruki's halua (sweetmeat) tasted exceptionally good. Zanzibar was just one of its own, its vendors like Ali hawking "Adanda" to sell off his bajia, the Asian gubiti (candy) seller or Mamdu Bi(Mohamedhusain Virjee) selling malai(barafu or ice lolly) were special in their own way.

Zanzibar's fruits like doriani, shokishoki and matufa were unique and besides Zanzibar can be found in certain parts of South East Asia only. The crowded market at Darajani was the source of Zanzibar's abundant supply of fresh meat, vegetables and fruits including the exceptional mangoes, shomari and muyuni. The Suri(Yemenis) and Somali formed Zanzibar's seasonal traders and among the many items that they brought were the popular ubani maka(chewing gum), ghonda(dried fish) and kismayu ghee. The little Zanzibar was also famous for its cloves, copra, carved wooden doors embossed with metals, man drawn rickshaws and the popular picnic resorts of Chwaka, Oroa, Fumba, Jambiani, Beju, Paje, Mkokotoni and Mangapwani beaches.

In the evening people gathered at Forodhani or Jubilee garden by the sea side sitting here and there on the ground, benches or at its fountain which was in the middle. Many formed small circles and chatted or played cards. The group of boys and girls strolled along there and even glanced admiringly at each other. In one corner stood Habib Pira's 'fruit & ice cream' stall while in the centre vendors stretched themselves in a raw selling mohogo(cassava), mishikaki (roasted meat), mango chips(keri), nuts(jugu, jugu mave, daria, bisi) in paper cone, cut sugar cane(miwa or ganderi), chana bateta, different kinds of juice(machungua, mabungo, ukwaju, ndimu, anenasi, miwa), various coconut and tropical fruits(joya, kichwa nazi, mapera, kungu, kunazi, mbuyu, zambrao, fu, chavia, embe kizungu) and all sorts of eatables.

Children played ashore with sand at Forodhani Mchanga adjacent to the garden.
On Tuesday evenings the Police Band played its orchestral music at the Jubilee memorial and entertained the public. Forodhani commanded spectacular view of the monumental Beit al-Ajaib (House of Wonders), Sultan's Palace and Portuguese Fort.

At the other end of stone town was the spacious Mnazi Moja ground where Zanzibar's sports loving public participated in various outdoor games. Mnazi Moja had three cricket pitches with a patchy pavilion, a couple of volleyball courts and a vast football field. A little further on the right of Mnazi Moja stretched the Coopers ground where the English had their club. They played golf, tennis and cricket. In its centre was the structure of its circular shaped pub where the colonialists relaxed and entertained themselves with alcoholic drinks.

The Sultan in his traditional joho(aba or robe) and kilemba (turban) went around in his vermilion coloured Austin Princess driven by chauffeur in red kizibao(short overcoat) and waved at passersby and acknowledged their salaam(salutation). At times even from his palace balcony he waved at the onlookers. The British Resident rode in his black limousine. The askari(police) in khaki coat, pair of half trousers and red tarboosh cap patrolled and kept guard over the island.

There was absolute harmony and peace. Even petty theft was a rare occurrence while the terminology 'corruption' was unheard of and did not figure at all.

At dusk the loud siren (hon) would traditionally go off and the fluttering red flag in the backyard of the Sultan's palace descended from its mast. The azan (call for prayers) from the mosques and the church and temple bells sounded from each and every corner. The public servant with his long wooden rod went from one street to another lighting street lamps.

Zanzibar by night though dim was inviolable and had its serenity, sanctity and also liveliness.

Dr. Donagh Hurley - Zanzibar Memoirs 1964

This is an excerpt from a series of eye witness accounts written by Dr Donagh Hurley who was working as a surgeon at the Karimjee Jivanjee Hospital in Zanzibar in the 1960s. This Hospital was opened in 1955 by Sultan Seyyid Khalifa bin Harub. Dr Hurley lived in Zanzibar with his family including his son Luke (now a musician living in New Zealand). More chapters of this memoir are available at:

http://www.lukehurley.co.nz/2010/02/02/zanzibar-1964-part1/.

Dr Hurley, who was also an artist, passed away in 1976. Luke is planning to publish these memoirs.

Most of the full excerpt relates his experiences of the 1964 Revolution from his position in the hospital. This is the introduction.

Zanzibar 1964
Zanzibar, seen first from far out at sea is a long, low shore. It appears insubstantial and almost indistinguishable from streamers of distant cloud which intensify the remote vastness of the Indian Ocean.

As the steamer approaches, the shore becomes gradually more substantial and long beaches become visible backed by screens of palms. The palms are dense but, at intervals, unrolled as it were by the steady progress of the steamer, there are partial clearings giving sight of crumbling Arab villas, thick walls, sightless windows, an air of disuse and decay.

From time to time as the shore unrolls, groups of outrigger canoes can be seen dancing on their reflections like long-legged flies. These lead the eye to discover clusters of huts, the dwellings of fishermen, partly hidden by the dense purple shadows thrown by the palms upon the beach. The roofs are of thatch, dried palm fronds called makuti.

The shore has a listening, waiting quality and is forbidding and mysterious. It seems imbued with a living personality; it seems to watch, it seems to repel rather than invite. The imagination conjures up unseen watchers, silent, aware, hostile. It is like going back in time to an earlier state of the planet or even to another planet.

The harbour is dotted by small coral islands, miniature replicas of Zanzibar herself, and the waterfront presents a limpid white facade of slender buildings and, tall among them, the rambling, massive palace of the Sultan and the filigree clock-tower of Beit al-Ajaib, the ‘House of Wonders’.

Working Sounds – Morning In Zanzibar

I remember most clearly the mornings or the evenings. Each dawn I awoke to the cry of the muzzein chanting his Arabic prayers, a mournful and weird sound, the cry of a soul lost forever in the depths of an abyss. The whine of the wind in desolate places, the lost and desolate predicament of the human being trapped on an inexorably inimical planet, a cry of loss, a despairing wail of loneliness.

A gardener from the nearby park, taking flowers to the Sultan’s palace, pushed his handcart along the road. His cart sounded as though one of the wheels were square. It made a curious grinding rattle, punctuated by a rhythmic knock, pause, knock, pause, knock which became louder and louder and then approached, deafeningly amplified as he reached the confines of the street and passed beneath the bedroom window. Then the knock, pause, knock, pause, knock diminished into a distant featureless rumble and faded away.

This was the first working sound of the day. The second was a faint rumbling, coming from afar which rapidly increased in volume and became identifiable as the beat of galloping hoofs and the clanking of milk cans. It was a donkey cart drawn by the liveliest donkey possible, beating sparks out of the road, the cans swaying violently and the driver, hunched and indolent, carried along, lost in a dream of his own. This din would also be suddenly amplified as the equipage entered the street and for a lime it sounded like a locomotive and drowned all other sounds.
A group of cyclists came next, workers on their way to Mazzizini, their laughter making their balance precarious as they listened with appreciation to one of their number, always the same one, imitating the falsetto pidgin Swahili instructions of his employer who must have talked a lot of nonsense, judging from the hilarity.

Individual sounds became lost soon after and merged into an increasing volume as more and more people and vehicles began to take up the tasks of the day........