I Lost My Heart in Bagamoyo by Nabeel Shariff

Half a decade later she’s still standing. Her ochre blue walls, three neatly arranged tables with locals streaming in and out clutching paper bags, with light grease marks silhouetting hadi kebabs and kitambua. Nestled along a terrace, aged with the remains of colonialism and diaspora, lies the K Teashop. My journey begins here just off Libya Street in downtown Dar-es-Salaam, as I finish the last dollop of pepper sauce the waiter collects my plate, and I pay him a couple of thousand shillings.

Kiswahili rings from every corner, with syllables I never thought possible reverberating within spasms of Gujarati and Kachi. The gentlemen behind the counter perch on stools, creating as much noise as the diners whilst counting their intake, as another batch of hot andazi is emptied into the vessels.

With my paternal roots shaped on the Swahili coast, I’m intrigued to observe the influences of India and Arabia, fashioning a current day African nation. On the front of it, there are noticeable traces of an era depleted lethargically over the last 50 years. When the movement of the Muhundis (Indians) from the Gujarat, Kutch and Kathiawar regions occurred in the early to mid twentieth century, they bought an array of practices unseen in the late Tanganyika.

From the cuisine alone, Tanzanian staple dishes have remnants of Indian palettes morphed in between local products. Within the former downtown ghetto of inhabitants, lie rows of mosques and prayer houses. With an area no larger than Spitalfields market, sixty year old mosques of various sects neighbour each other with prayer goers in a variety of adornments. I was bemused by the density and diversity of sects in such a small area, however in Dar style, everyone simply got on with their daily routine. Ismaili’s carried their offering of food for the evening congregation, whilst the Adhan called from several directions, all a few seconds out of sync, as the Sunni majority closed up shop.

The early morning rush started at the crack of dawn with commuters lining up outside the bus station in Mwenge. Daladala’s crowded the roads, with commuters clinging to the sides of the overcrowded seven seater buses mazing their way through the traffic. The majority of locals are of African origin, with the minority Asian contingent passing the claustrophobic maxi vans in the comfort of a four wheel drive, chauffeured by their African driver.

There is a significant divide, with the minority white collar workers, driving the manufacturing and business sectors in a country that has suffered from a lack of foreign investment. However within the segregation of race, and an underlying grumbling, there is a relative ease about Dar. The port is home to a variety of trading and the cargo ships line the coast with traders travelling from all directions to wholesale their goods.

I decided that morning to take a journey away from Dar-es-salaam to Bagamoyo, 75 kilometres north. The journey was an hour long, through villages and some off road tracks. Bagamoyo in Kiswahili means “lay down your heart” and is debated to refer to the porters bringing cargo from the great lakes or to the unconfirmed slave trade that operated on the shores. The region’s history is steeped in traders from the Arabian Peninsula. Home to the 13th-century ruins of Kaole, there is plenty of visible evidence of Islamic heritage similar to the ruins in Kilwa, 400 kilometres south.

In both sites there are working evidences of wells used to pull water for ablution, the sides of the coral stone mosques, and tombs marked with Arabic inscriptions dotted around the sites. The oldest of the two mosques in Kilwa is thought to date back to the 3rd or 4th-century, making it one of the oldest mosque ruins on the African mainland, showing early contact between Africa and the Islamic world. From my first few days here, it was obvious the effect the traders have had on this region, similarly to the effect of the Europeans in parts of west Africa. The language has the odd Arabic word, the street names and when I reached Stone Town in Zanzibar more influence apparent on every street corner.

Within the humid terminal, I waited for my pilot. I was wondering where he was as my flight was due to take off in ten minutes time. As another charter left for Arusha, he arrived. A young Belgian armed with aviators, performed stringent checks on the Cessna which would deliver me to Sadaani National Park in no more than fifteen minutes.

As I clambered into the six seater light aircraft believing this has to be the only way to fly from now on, he tussled with air traffic control and soon had us flying a modest 2000 metres above the Indian Ocean to the mainland. I was told we had to circle in case of any animals crossing the airstrip, which made sense once I realised the airstrip was a patch of grass similar to Old Trafford in mid season. As we came to a stop, the door swung outward and was greeted by John, who would become an intrinsic part of the Saadani experience, ready with a 4x4 for the short journey to the lodge.

The rustic attention opitimised my experience here; unpretentious yet personal. The lodge family gives the feel of a warm and inviting environment. With only eight other rooms, privacy is a premium enjoyed here. Sadaani National Park is home to an array of wildlife, and is fairly new on the reserve map of Tanzania. A Game Drive led by John, will have you spotting Giraffes, Reedbucks and if you’re lucky a pride of Lions. Admittedly the National Park is in it’s early days of acquiring the status of other parks, however has a pleasant addition over it’s counterparts.

The Wami River lies a 45 minute drive away, and is part of the lodge excursions. Cruising along the river in the early morning or late afternoon, you will almost certainly see Hippo’s, Crocodiles and some of the best array of bird life along the coast. Dolphins, and sea turtles can also be spotted with sea safaris from the lodge. Add a hammock, a shaded library and a fantastic chef, Saadani Lodge has the blueprint for a classic end to your journey.

Two days and four hours drive later I was back in Dar-es-salaam, mingling within the traders, the daily life, the ever present detriment of the African plight. As I await to check in for my flight, my journey ends, just off Libya Street in downtown Dar-es-Salaam, opening my lightly greased paper bag, clutching my last kitambua.