Tanzania (part 5)

At the post office I bid farewell to my new friend and found my way to the Standi (bus station), hopping on the first Dala Dala to Pangani (with the help of only 8 touts). I knew almost nothing about Pangani except that it was small and south of Tanga. The internet had very little information on the place. I originally thought I would find a cheap place near the beach in Tanga and stay there the whole duration of my week, but upon finding Tanga not really having much in the way of nice beaches, nor any accommodations near these imaginary nice beaches, I decided I'd be better off with a blind visit to the tiny neighbor to the south. I was a little worried when I arrived and realized that I only had like $50 in Tsh (I was suppose to change more in Tanga), and no idea whatever where to go or how to get there. I entered one of the worn down buildings bearing the label "Tourist Information" and began browsing the brochures. Eventually I was greeted by an "official" tour guide named 'Manweli' (Kiswahili for Emanuel I think) who went by the name of Hot Hot. By this time I was extremely suspicious of anyone who showed an interest in "helping" me, but Manweli, or Hot Hot, was legit. He helped me find good places at good prices, took me everywhere, rented me a bike for 2000tsh/day and when I once forgot my passport upon changing hotels (I moved to a remote resort spot some 16kilometers down the way), he retrieved it and saved it for me upon my return.

I spent 1 night in the town of Pangani at a hotel on the beach run by the Catholic Church. It was quite nice actually, the room was clean except for a few bugs that must have wandered in after the morning cleaning and were now expressing a painfully slow demise via asphyxiation from residual insecticide. The hot water showers didn't really work but the water was naturally luke-warm. The room had a kind of porch like something you might find in an upper level apartment building, except smaller, and fully screened with mosquito netting. The hotel had a bungalow-style restaurant and bar on the beach which was actually pretty decent and not too expensive.

The first thing I did once I got settled was hit the beach. I wanted to do nothing except swim in the Indian ocean, catch some sweet African rays and read the book I borrowed from the Borden’s called Life of Pi (overall a good story. it left me unsatisfied, but I'd still recommend it). The day I arrived happened to be the end of Ramadan and the beginning of a national two-day holiday in Tanzania, a predominantly Muslim nation. The joint next door happened to be a Rec. Center/ Disco and I'm pretty sure that all of Pangani and its surrounding villages had come to celebrate. I walked a little more than a mile or so down the beach to get away from both the surplus revelers and the mouth of the Pangani River which was only a few hundred meters from the hotel, muddying the water and littering it with plastic bags and coconut shells.

I have strange concepts of security. I'm definitely one of those people who'd rely constantly on a hide-a-key instead of carrying my keys around with me. I didn't bring anything valuable with me to the beach except my room keys and a few shillings, and when I settled on a place to lie my towel I buried my keys and the shillings in sand beneath it. In my hotel rooms I always hide my wallet and passport, usually under the mattress or inside the pillowcase. I don't really know why I do this, I doubt I'm out-witting any would-be robbers and often I forget that I've gone all winter-time chipmunk on myself and end up losing my shit (as was the case the very next day when I left for Ushango).

That night I had a beer and chicken stew. I also broke out the rum I had been saving since my time in Chimoio with Africa 180. It tasted absolutely terrible, even mixed with a bottle of coke. Maybe it was the weeks of African heat and sun. I couldn't drink it and threw the rest away later that night. The chicken stew was actually just broth with 5 potato halves and a chicken leg in it. The stew was tasty, but the chicken might as well have been a Masai tire-shoe for all the meat I could shred from it. In the stew was a yellow, medium sized, roundish foreign pepper which I mistook for one of those tasty delicacies often found at good salad bars. I popped the entire thing in my mouth and chewed expectantly. It was a number of seconds before I realized that, not only was this not the salad bar ornament I remembered, but it was in fact rapidly corroding every nerve ending in my mouth (I have since learned that it was actually a habanero pepper. seriously why would they put a whole pepper in my stew like that?). The tears came out my nose. After drinking all the water and beer on my table I resorted to the rum in desperation, which surprisingly didn't help at all (that is an understatement). I cried for probably an hour.