Ibn Ibn Battuta

A Week Well Spent on Bequia: St. Vincent & the Grenadines

St. Vincent & the Grenadines map

In my first Caribbean experience, from January 4 through 14 I traveled to St. Vincent & the Grenadines with my girlfriend Jacqueline and her family – just a vacation this time, nothing more. Our home for those ten days was the Park Bay House on the island of Bequia (pronounced beck-way), the largest of the Grenadines chain.

Formerly a British colony famous for its sugar production, whaling fleets, and shipbuilding prowess, SV&G is today an independent nation whose residents are more distinguished for their copious consumption of dancehall reggae and rum.

Swimming with the Quirimbas Current

Mozambique map

So accustomed to rising early to take public transportation on Mozambique's bizarre schedule, I woke before dawn and, as the sun was rising, set out for a walk. I grabbed my camera and a banana and slid into my flip-flops on my way out the hotel's crisply whitewashed gate, not realizing I wouldn't be back for six hours. I walked east, past the island's small Christian cemetery with its weathered grave markers.

A few minutes later, at the edge of the small village, I crossed a wide grass field, hacked out of the brush, that served as the island's airstrip. Further along, as I traipsed through a wide meadow soggy with the risen tide, sacred ibises rose and soared overhead in elegant formation.

Something for Nothing

Mozambique map

The eerie ambiance I had perceived during my first few hours on Ibo was quickly forgotten as I began to recognize the overwhelming friendliness of the locals, unparalleled in nearly all my travels. (The delightful city of Hama in central Syria remains distinguished in my mind for the unmatched hospitality of its residents, but I will not soon forget the beaming smiles of the locals on Ibo.)

The only exception to the rule of near universal cheerfulness and warmth on Ibo was the island’s “tourism officer,” who hounded me and all other visitors to the island in an attempt to convince us to register our names in his log and pay the five dollar “tourist tax.” Most considered him a pesky, overeager young bureaucrat and obliged simply to be rid of him.

Ilha do Ibo: Rubble In Paradise

Mozambique map

The chapa from Ilha de Mocambique pulled into the little crossroads of Namialo early Wednesday morning and I disembarked. When the large tour bus I hoped to transfer to for the trip north to Pemba lurched to a stop, its hydraulic squeals making me cringe, it was overloaded with at least twice the number of passengers as its designers had intended. But of course, it was the only bus. So, for the next two hours of my trip I stood, until a free seat finally appeared and I was able to pounce on it. In the meantime, however, I was on my feet, holding my backpack in my arms and making a conscious effort just to keep breathing, wedged in as I was between several other riders, all of us crammed in the narrow aisle.

In the Shadows of Ilha's Relics

Mozambique map

My pensao, or hostel, on Ilha was unnamed, and faced one of the island's verdant squares. Its young owner, generally found squatting in the dust beside the front door playing bao with a friend, had painted the building a shocking yellow green with blue trim. I rose early that morning, wishing him "Bom dia" as I passed the game on the way out.

I walked to the Church of Santo Antonio, on the island's eastern coast, passing through the waking village on my way. Many residents of the island's southern shanty town, lacking running water or indoor plumbing, were relieving themselves on the beach, and kicking sand behind them like cats as they turned back toward the houses. Though it may bring funds for restoration and tourism revenue, there is a price to pay for having the UN decide that the place you live is to be "preserved." The shanty town is excluded from major development and renovation funding yet must still abide by the strict World Heritage building guidelines, a factor which likely contributes to the lack of modern amenities, like indoor plumbing, in the ramshackle homes. Overall, the relative exclusion of the island's southern half from tourism development projects appears today to have preserved little more than poverty there.

Exploring Moussa's Isle

Mozambique map

Some time before dawn I gave up on sleeping, packed and hurriedly fled my hotel, grabbing a coffee at a local cafe before walking to see Nampula's large cathedral as the city slowly awoke.

With a local boy's help, I found the minibus station and, leaving the others behind for the time being, boarded one of the deathtraps en route to Monapo. Meant to seat at most 12, soon the minibus was loaded with more than 23 people, plus their baggage, by my most conservative estimate. On our way out of Nampula, our driver presented the appropriate papers at several police roadblocks along the route, the 50 meticais note which he tucked into the documents no doubt smoothing our passage each time. We drove toward the coast and its famous off-shore island, the Ilha de Moçambique, which had been my ultimate destination during the last week's travels through the country's rugged north.

Likoma Island: Finding Bliss on Lake Malawi

Malawi map

The eastern sky blushed a peachy glow as the Ilala chugged into Likoma Island's harbor at dawn. Along with the other mzungus aboard, I clambered into a small motorboat which drove us around the island's southern shores, past the idyllic Kaya Mawa lodge. We continued to the secluded western side of the island and disembarked at Mango Drift, a hostel made up of several squat bandas right on the beach. Atop each building's reed sides a grass roof perched slightly askew, cocked "just so," like the swank straw hats of Art Deco sunbathers. Nearby, the hostel's shower had been carved out of the hulking trunk of a baobab tree, and was overgrown with bougainvilleas sprouting electric pink blooms.

At breakfast in the open-air beachside bar I made the acquaintance of a few British and Dutch guests before they set out to visit to the island's witch doctor.

The Wild Things of Rubondo Island

Tanzania map

From the minute the boat bumped against the thin strip of white sand beach, it was clear that Rubondo Island is an almost unearthly place. A few paces from the water's edge, a seemingly impenetrable tangle of dark tropical forest began, covering the entirety of the enormous island, which from the water is easy to mistake for the mainland because of its size. We would stay at the ranger's camp along the lakeshore, along with a few other groups of travellers.

Before the painful exercise of pitching our tents (a jumble of mismatched poles and bundled canvas which our guide company was happy to provide us with) at and shortly after dusk, we took a brief walk through the forest. Walking along the trail, peering into the undergrowth, I was reminded of the mornings in my childhood when my sister would wake up and come downstairs, her long hair in a feral tangle, and my mom would order her to "Go comb that rat's nest!" Amidst the roots of the banyan trees, hanging down from high up in the canopy to the forest floor, and the endless squiggles of liana vines entwined around the other vegetation, others recalled Where the Wild Things Are.

Last Days in Dar

Tanzania map

Time has flown by since our return from Mikumi and Morogoro nearly two weeks ago. Swahili class picked up in intensity a good deal, and our teachers finally judged us prepared to go out into the real world for some extracurricular activities after our morning classes. One such trip took us to Kariakoo, Dar es Salaam's chaotic western suburb and main market area, known best among travelers as a petty theft hotspot. When he heard we would be going, Scott Taylor, the Georgetown professor on site, chuckled and muttered something about a "den of thieves."

There, Tanzania's poverty made itself far more visible than ever before, as we stumbled through crowded streets, tripping our way over a pungent mix of discarded food scraps and trash.

Zanzibar: Spice Isle Rhapsody

Tanzania map

On Friday, June 9, after the calm early morning ferry ride to Zanzibar, we dropped our bags at our hotel, located in the center of the labyrinthine Stone Town, the island's modest "capital" and a tiny city, easily crossed by foot in its entirety within an hour. Weaving through the narrow alleyways, which reminded me quite a bit of the streets of old Damascus, we arrived at a small restaurant beside the sea called Mercury's. Inside, once I had seen the shrine which the owners had created in one corner of the cafe, the origin of the restaurant's name was clear: it was named after Freddie Mercury, the Zanzibar-born lead singer of the band Queen. Who knew? Several decades ago, for a brief time the island's separatist movement leaders apparently even adopted as their motto the line "Bismillah, will you let him go?" from Queen's hit "Bohemian Rhapsody."