Yesterday I wrote nothing because I, er, got bored. Bored in Zanzibar. It's possible, if one is alone and spends all day tramping round the mostly picturesque but also tout-ridden streets of Stone Town. It's a bit much when Batman becomes light relief. Today I decided to be active and took a spice tour. I generally avoid organised tours because they're awful. This one looked like it was going to be awful. Three loud Yanks, three loud Swedes, another vocal Yank who describes herself as “an activist and grassroots organiser” and some quieter people who were nice. The spice tour involves going to a spice farm and looking at spices. When I read that in the guidebook, along with “this is really fascinating” I thought there must be more to it than looking at spice plants. No. It went something like this:
Qassim the guide stops at a bush/tree.
“Can you guess what this is?”
Group: “No.”
“It's lemongrass/pepper/vanilla/cardamom/ginger/jackfruit…”
[Repeat 20 times in blinding heat and sun with no water]
I didn't think jackfruit was a spice but it seems to qualify. By cardamom, I'd had enough. The best entertainment after that was when one of the loud Yanks got bitten and was convinced it was a Black Mamba; another loud Yank – who works for the World Bank – complained at having to pay an 80 cent entrance fee to a cave where slaves were kept, so didn't pay it but went down anyway (to a chorus of me muttering “bloody cheapskate”); and everyone else swimming at the beach except me, which brought back memories of “please miss I've got my period” at games lessons, and “YOU CAME TO DAR WITHOUT A BIKINI?”
Now I am going home without a bikini. I'll see you in the pub, if the spirit of Emirates wishes it.