Waftings and wanderings

They say in the good old days of Zanzibar that the sailors used to be able to smell the island’s famous spices from miles offshore. I’d put that one into the bullshit file pretty early on but after a couple of days in Stonetown, I may yet be convinced.

In this little melting pot of the Indian Ocean where African, Arabic, Indian and Asian culture have mixed seasonally from the better part of 1000 years to produce a unique blend all of its own, perhaps the smells of acres of clove plantations could have wafted up into the breeze and out to the odour-deprived sailing around on dhows in the ocean.

Smell, sight, and sound travel in strange ways here in Stonetown. Everything seems to be carried upwards rather than along the mazy lanes that mark this little part of the world. From our privileged position four floors up, the street sounds like a cacophony of conversation and laughter but at ground level you have to lean to hear the words. In early morning when the ringing of the Hindu temple and the call to prayer from the nearby mosque compete up above the street it sounds like a battle for sectarian bragging rights. In the laneways they are softer and they act as gentle reminders of religious observances.
The smell of the local food takes a similar journey upwards rather than along the streets. As for sight, from the balcony we can see that this labyrinth is much smaller than it would seem. The streets may be confusing but rarely overwhelming as you know that if you keep heading in the right direction, you will find your way. A bit like those sailors. Pick your star, follow it and let your nose do the rest.

Things in Stonetown have context from four floors up, but context is not as valuable as it would seem in a culture that lives lane to lane, tide to tide, monsoon wind to monsoon wind, and these days tourist to tourist.