Kilwa – Fishing For Compliments

Kilwa in Swahili means ‘Place of Fish’ or can mean markets too –the collective name given to three different areas on the Tanzanian coast: Kilwa Kisiwani, Kilwa Kivinje and Kilwa Masoko. We explored UNESCO-listed ruins, enjoyed the beach,  ate seafood and chillaxed in our hammocks.

The drive to Kilwa all along the coast was relaxing. I crocheted, and we listened to our book while Butch got me to my destination in our trusty steed, the old Honey Badger. We were in a good mood and looking forward to our first authentic Tanzanian experience.

The countryside was lovely, green and lush. On our left, we saw colourful villages and ladies of all ages in bright traditional Muslim hijabs; on our right, we hugged the coast and could occasionally glimpse the cobalt ocean.

 

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Kilwa Masoko, as it is now known, was the capital of the Kilwa district when the British constructed a deep-water port for their boats at the site in 1918. Tanganyika’s government designated Kilwa Masoko as the district headquarters after the country gained independence in 1961. The municipality became a township authority in 2008.

We headed straight to Kilwa Beach Lodge. All the reviews and recommendations pointed us in that direction.

Directions aren’t always clear, and it took us a while to find our way out of Kilwa Masoko and onto the dirt road to Kilwa Beach Lodge, just a few kilometres from the village and a few hundred yards from the fish market and the boatyard.

 

Baja, the manager of Kilwa Beach Lodge; Abatha, his lovely wife; and Dennis and Dula, the executive chef, met us and took us to our campsite right by the beach. They moved rocks and shells to reach our desired spot, and within a jiffy we were seated in the restaurant, napkins tucked into our collars, ready for lunch. Dula whipped up a delicious prawn cocktail, the old-fashioned kind with a piquant Thousand Island dressing, within a few minutes. Heaven on a plate.

Keeping things simple has become our way of life. We were soon in our bathers, with our kikois wrapped around our waists, ready to explore.

Our first sunset was one for the books, and every evening after that was a Kodak moment: Irresistible, and one to celebrate with another click and a clink. My sunrises aren't as bright or as brisk, and it took special effort to capture one of the magnificent sunrises. But we try.

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Beach walks are obligatory. Each morning we’d grab our hats, sunglasses, and a plastic bag for shells, then set off to see what the tides had brought in and to inspect the fishermen’s catch.

 

Occasionally, we'd walk to the fish market, our nearest neighbour, to enjoy the bustle of the fishermen's commercial activity and the serious women who man the stalls while their men are on the high seas. 

The warm, briny ocean and the sweet scents of coconut and herbal wood smoke, together with the aroma of garlic and ginger, ooze from aluminium saucepans and woks; the steam carries tantalising scents of curry, cardamom, and cinnamon as ladies prepare the mid-morning meal for the fishermen. Blankets of wood smoke and the brackish, fishy odour permeate the concrete blocks and well-trodden sandy paths through the market.

Rice, cultivated throughout Tanzania, is a staple and served with every meal, as are bananas in every form. The tiny, hot, golden flying-saucer rice cakes, fried over hot coals, went home with us. I served ours with delicious local honey and the last of our cheddar cheese. They were a yummy treat.

The auctioneer’s cattle rattle in rapid Swahili goes something like this: “zabuni ya shilingi moja, sasa mbili, sasa mbili, utanipa mbili?” The crowd’s excited bids, taunts, and teasing jeers become frenetic. We were too nervous to lift a finger and stayed rooted to the spot, keeping mum. Lots of fish would be laid out for buyers to inspect.

Occasionally, an interesting fish, like the Undumi or a red snapper (weighing 1,5 kg), would catch our eye, and Baja or Dula would come to our rescue and do the bidding. We’d walk home chuffed with someone’s catch of the day, ready to be prepared on our fire later.

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We almost lost all our inhibitions, being the only campers and often the only guests around. Stripping off my flip-flops, I went about my day barefoot. That’s a new treat and a worthy one too! I couldn’t imagine doing it anywhere else except later in Zanzibar, but who knew?

That’s hakuna matata, a Swahili phrase meaning “no trouble” or “no worries” and “take it easy” (literally Hakuna: “there is no/there are no”; Matata: “worries”). We embraced it immediately.

With our hammocks permanently strung between two palm trees, we would read, nap, and think, always staying out of the path of falling coconuts. The only sounds would be the occasional song of an Amethyst sunbird or the dry, raspy rattle of a lilac-breasted roller. We would also start counting crows. 

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Hermit crabs were by far our favourite creatures, and we’d follow them, fascinated by their antics and the strange treks they made, heading far up the beach from the water’s edge to scavenge, occupy empty mollusc shells, and bury themselves in the soft sand during the day or at high tide.

While swinging in my green hammock, I had plenty of time to count and confirm they have ten legs and two claws. The right claw is much bigger, and interestingly, Hermit Crabs are more closely related to squat lobsters than to true crabs. I know they are often regarded as delicacies in some traditional cuisines, but, like the octopus, now that I know a little more about them and have studied them in nature, my appetite for them has waned.

I would recommend the documentary “My Octopus Teacher” if you haven’t seen it yet.

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On other days, when we felt energetic, we’d get on our bikes and ride into the village, stopping at the market to buy supplies or indulge in a sweet treat at a street vendor's stall.

The one we particularly fancied was sold by a sullen man who wasn’t keen to part with his delicious, crispy Kah-kah, a holy filo cookie similar to Kilaj. It looked like bow-ties, only much nicer. After a face-off with Butch, he'd reluctantly wrap our order in torn pages from his accounting book. Maybe he thought we'd get the message. We're thick-skinned and would return whenever we could.

It was Ramadan, and we could purchase delicious Sukkar Bara (similar to skuinskoek) from the roadside markets and at-home stalls. They became our favourite early-morning treat with coffee as we travelled.

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While browsing the stalls, I noticed the colourful traditional robes and dresses the ladies wore. My curiosity got the better of me, and soon, to the applause and encouragement of everyone in the shop, I was draped in a hijab. I liked it and enjoyed the anonymity it afforded me.

In keeping with local traditions, I would respectfully cover my shoulders, head and legs. Tanzania is deeply conservative, so men and women would cover their knees and shoulders in public. Traditionally, women wear only kitenge skirts, but it’s acceptable for foreign women to wear jeans or trousers – as long as they aren’t too form-fitting. We don’t want to be mzungu who are tsk-tsked about! Children often call out mzungu, mzungu when they see us and run away if they're not brave enough to wave!

Butch has acquired a cheerful blue shirt, made to order via WhatsApp, and I have a gorgeous blue robe and scarf, which we keep for special occasions.

I regret not buying the sheer sunray pleated skirt Dula held up for me to consider. I should’ve bitten the bullet and splurged. It would’ve been perfect for my evening dinner dates with Butch in Zanzibar. The autumn colours, I have come to realise, suit me. You snooze; you lose. Dula was insistent, but I was adamant I had tiny space in my wardrobes.

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Saturdays are traditionally our days for going out on a long cycle, and we did one early one morning. It turned out to be a very long cycle. We went north along the coast, exploring coves, villages and the beach. We’d kept to the plan of keeping to the right whenever there was a fork in the road.

On the way home, we took a few wrong turns (keeping right!) and went on a wild goose chase through farms, green cornfields, banana plantations, and farmyards where only chickens scratched and clucked for titbits in the soil. The cooking fires had died down, leaving only the occasional red ember that flared in the breeze and sent smoky ash up in puffy white clouds. We were hot and bothered and irritable, but...

That’s the joy of cycling. We might’ve lost our internal compass or map, but we knew we'd eventually find our way home—the moral of the story?

Sometimes we discover more when we are lost and experience places we’d never have dreamed of visiting. We would never have found those places. In Tanzania, it is also an excellent way to meet people who are always willing to help.

As Mark Twain said succinctly, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.” The Innocents Abroad

Besides, I would've missed this magnificent baobab tree, which has been sitting there for hundreds of years.

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The libraries I found were libraries in name only. Unless, of course, a pirate video shop counts as one?

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Naturally, plain sailing isn't our destiny, and on one ride Butch tried a shortcut, got his front wheel stuck in loose sand, and flew over his handlebars. Unfortunately, the tumble left him unscathed. He scraped his shin on a ragged, sharp, rusty, old iron drum.

He got up, dusted himself off, and insisted he'd only scratched his leg. At first, there was no blood (a clean shave), but I noticed blood streaming down his leg when we stopped in the village. With a quick look, I almost keeled over and had to sit on the nearest step.

 

 

Fortunately, we could purchase a black brushed nylon utility cloth from a shop to stem the bleeding and apply a tourniquet to the leg. We completed our circuit in search of a pharmacy to replenish our first-aid supplies before heading home to change the dressings.

At home, I examined the leg, cleaned the cut as best I could, and demanded that he go to the doctor for stitches, pronto, Tonto. 

He and Baja left in the Bajaj with driver Bob Marley, both hale and hearty. I breathed a sigh of relief. Unbeknownst to him, I knew how deep the cut was, down to the bone. He needed another tetanus shot and stitches.

Three hours later, the three musketeers returned. Butch was stitched, bandaged, and armed with a paper bag of medication. The young, charming Doctor cleaned the wound and agreed that a double layer of dissolving stitches was needed to minimise scarring. In total, there were 12 stitches. He also received booster jabs of anti-Tetanus and antibiotics.

Butch was so impressed with the young man who did the procedure "without his assistant", he added.

Butch returned to the clinic twice for an inspection, to have his dressings changed, and to have the wound cleaned.

On his last visit, the Doctor said he’d miss his favourite patient, wished him well, and hoped the rest of his journey would be free of injury.

The antibiotics did their job; fortunately, Butch did have cellulitis, albeit mild, and had to take a repeat course of antibiotics. This journey is a lesson in "why it's important to stay healthy and injury-free." It turned out to be a long road to recovery. Butch didn't let his leg stand in his way, and we soon resumed our cycles of discovery.

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We could not visit Kilwa without a historical tour of the Ruins of Kilwa Kisiwani and Songo Mnara.

The remains of two great East African ports are on two small islands off the coast of Kilwa city. From the 13th to the 16th century, Kilwa merchants dealt in gold, silver, pearls, perfumes, Arabian crockery, Persian earthenware, and Chinese porcelain; much of the Indian Ocean trade thus passed through their hands. Arabian sultans ruled and administered the islands.

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With executive Chef Dula in charge, we made our way to the market and tourism office, where we could make a reservation to go to Kilwa Kisiwani the following day.

After we made our arrangements, we accompanied Dula on his rounds to collect supplies for the lodge. While we waited for Bob Marley, he showed me all the shops and stalls where I could browse and buy a pretty cotton kanga (cloth worn around the waist, head, or shoulders).

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Once again, Bob Marley drove his bright red Bajaj to pick us up early the next morning and took us to the port, where our guide and the boat captain met us and sailed us across the bay to Kilwa Kisiwani.

After a timely wait to get the official paperwork and documents in order, we made our way to the harbour, which a Chinese company is expanding.

The boat, a reminder of the boats commonly used around Thailand's islands, brought back happy memories of our explorations around Pipi Island and of the James Bond (James Born) boat we found so amusing when we visited the islands shortly after the destructive tsunami.

With the salty sea breeze in our hair, we puttered gently across the tranquil waters to the island, alongside canoes, dugouts, and dhows that ply the seas.

Our very proper, young student guide spoke good English and could give us a reasonable synopsis of the island’s history and the villagers who now live there. Once we’d landed, our boat returned to the mainland, where the skipper ferried passengers to and from the island. We’d meet him later when we’d rendezvous at the mangrove swamps.

The rest of the morning, we walked the island, enjoying the subtropical landscape with ancient rubber trees and baobabs, and discovering the old ruins and buildings our guide told us about.

At times, we’d relax on a well-worn step and take it all in, sharing the space with the memories and ghosts of slaves, traders and sultans who lived and ruled there.

“Kilwa Kisiwani and Songo Mnara were Swahili trading cities, and their prosperity was based on control of Indian Ocean trade with Arabia, India and China, particularly between the 13th and 16th centuries, when gold and ivory from the hinterland were traded for silver, carnelian, perfumes, Persian faience and Chinese porcelain.”

Kilwa Kisiwani minted its currency from the 11th to the 14th century.

In the 16th century, the Portuguese established a fort on Kilwa Kisiwani, and the two islands declined.

The remains of Kilwa Kisiwani cover much of the island, with many parts of the city still unexcavated. The ruins, built of coral and lime mortar, include the Great Mosque, constructed in the 11th century and roofed entirely with domes and vaults, some decorated with embedded Chinese porcelain.

The palace Husuni Kubwa was built around c. 1310 and includes its sizeable octagonal bathing pool; Husuni Ndogo; numerous mosques; the Gereza (prison), built on the ruins of the Portuguese fort; and an entire urban complex with houses, public squares, burial grounds, etc.

At times, our guide’s command of English failed her, but we enjoyed her soft-spoken enthusiasm so much that we didn’t mind!

The boatbuilding yard sat close to the slipway. Under the canopy of an umbrella tree, onlookers, advisers, builders and friends gathered to watch the proceedings. I'm sure they're still using the very same methods that have stood the test of time. The chap we spoke to filled the gaps, hammering pieces of cloth, plastic, and wood chips with a sharp chisel. His blows were startlingly accurate!

We were hot and sticky, our brains buzzing with our newfound knowledge. It was time to head home. After a long walk through the village and subsistence farms, we reached the mangrove swamp, where we met our boatman just as the tide turned and began to come in.

Integrating a World Heritage site with a working community must bring social, political, and historical challenges. Poor communities struggle to survive, and conservation isn't a priority unless there are incentives, financial benefits, and extensive education, I imagine. 

The cool afternoon breeze licked our faces, and we relaxed, not saying much, as we sailed back to the mainland and had an ice-cold Cola (Coke) at the café where Bob would meet us in his red tuk-tuk.

To my great surprise, I noticed Vincent’s big Triumph motorbike parked on the grounds of a guesthouse. I was sure it was him and hoped we would meet up.

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After a week, we extended our stay to ten days simply because we couldn’t say goodbye to the wonderful staff, the friendly strangers we'd met, or the perfect camping spot on the beach under the swaying coconut palms.

We were fit, enjoyed our cycles around town and the district, and would take a different route every day. There was much to explore, as Kilwa sits on fingers of land surrounded by the ocean, bays, inlets, and a few lakes.

Blimey, we saw Vincent marching along the main road one afternoon. We were all delighted to meet up; the first thing he did was give Butch a professional eye, and then, on his recommendation, we went to his favourite café, where we indulged in a delicious fruit-and-berry slushy. Vincent is a vegetarian and knows all the good eateries specialising in extraordinary and unusual dishes.

We caught up and were enthralled by his adventures. I do suffer from FOMO and often imagine myself in other travellers’ boots. One can’t go everywhere, but one can dream.

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I have left the best part of our stay for last. The people we met on this stay were the pinnacle of our experience and would set the bar for the rest of our trip.

 

Baja and Abatha regularly came around to check on us, stayed for a chat, and welcomed us to the restaurant, where we enjoyed many meals.

One evening, Abatha took me on a tour of the resort, showing me the various cottages and accommodation options. She always reassured us that nothing was impossible or too tricky if we needed assistance. The four leopard shells Abatha brought as a gift on our final day will be treasured forever.

Baja was the perfect host and friend. He spent many hours chatting with us, helping wherever needed. He certainly went the extra mile for us numerous times, and we enjoyed his easy banter and infectious laugh. In my mind’s eye, I see him dressed in his Bermuda shorts and eye-catching, colourful traditional shirt. He was tall and handsome, and he reminded me of Nelson Mandela's elegance, with the swing of a reggae star.

When I broke the glass top of our kitchen basin, Baja came to my rescue and found a carpenter who made a new, improved wooden lid. Now everything can tumble out of the spice cupboard without causing damage.

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I renamed Dula, and he was promoted to Executive Chef Dula. Dula prepared excellent meals for us. From tasty prawn cocktails to curried fish and grilled red snapper. No matter the time of day, he assured us we weren't inconveniencing him and that he would prepare scrumptious dishes. And he did.

Always using the freshest market ingredients, he made his salads crisp and his tomatoes plump. I enjoyed prawns, perfectly prepared, glassy and firm on two occasions, as I like them. We’d been spoilt in Mozambique with beautiful fresh seafood, but Dula wasn’t outdone, and the crayfish tails were spot on! Dula’s fish cakes, samoosas and crab cakes were the best. Delicious, meaty, perfectly seasoned and spiced, generous and made with care.

Butch was eager to prepare some of our fishy meals himself but found the sourcing of fish a tad trying; fortunately, Dula stepped in and did the legwork or rather, negotiations, for him.  While Dula signaled the fishermen in their boat, we ordered charcoal and prepared the fire.

I do believe Dula realised we were very adventurous foodies, eager to experiment. He suggested we accompany him to the evening food market to taste local dishes from local cooks.

We agreed immediately. 

It would be interesting to try new flavours and ingredients; it would also be a thrill to spend time with the villagers at the market. Traditionally, people gather at the market at night, where friends and family enjoy communal meals or a meal prepared by a cook around the fire, rather than at home.

Traditional music could be heard as everyone recounted their day. Men sat around cooking fires, discussing their business dealings, fishing, or farming, while ladies cooked. Children had free rein and could run safely amongst the adults. The atmosphere was sublime, cloaked in a comforting, hazy blanket of wood smoke, laughter, and the singsong sounds of rapid-fire Swahili.

In Dula's company, we never felt excluded or unwelcome; instead, we felt at home.

Butch and I sampled various stalls. We ordered single portions, shared them, and moved around the market, savouring a range of cooking styles, flavours, and ingredients.

Our favourite dish was beef shin, slow-cooked in a tasty broth and served with chapatti. For dessert, we had slices of fresh watermelon.

This meal was a highlight, one we repeated throughout our trip. The delight on a cook's or chef’s face when a stranger comes to their table and enjoys their simple country fare is so joyful it is hard to resist.

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On our last evening, Dula presented us with a freshly baked loaf of bread, his take on the delicious “bow ties”, and, to top it all off, six beautiful samoosas. We would picnic with flair en route to Dar es Salaam.

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The most memorable evening was when we invited our friends to join us for dinner. Our guests would choose the date for the celebration at their convenience.

 

Butch arranged with Dula, who agreed to purchase all the ingredients on our behalf, and he would prepare a traditional seafood meal fit for a King.

Butch and I would meet at the restaurant at sunset. While we enjoyed our sundowners, swinging on the daybed overlooking the quietly lapping waters under swaying palm trees, the chefs prepared our dinner.

Dennis set a long table elegantly and fussed over and arranged our seating until he was satisfied.

From the quiet kitchen (yes, no pots or pans were banging), we savoured the delicious aromas of herbs and spices as the fish, calamari, and crab were being prepared. Under the stars, we sipped our drinks as our taste buds were tantalised.

Our table groaned under a selection of exquisitely prepared local dishes, and once we were seated, we tucked in. Silence prevailed as we enjoyed our courses, broken only by excited chatter when Dula prepared the next course.

The following day we agreed that experience was another indelible evening and one for the memory bank safely stored to be recounted later.

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Our visit to Kilwa set the tone and raised our expectations for Tanzania. Every rumour is true. Tanzanians are interested in visitors. They care about people’s well-being. They’re kind, generous, exceptionally respectful, friendly, and reserved, yet forthcoming when we open up and ask questions. When a Tanzanian says "you're welcome", they mean it.

We both loved Kilwa, and I’d undoubtedly return if I could. All the staff at Kilwa Beach Resort are the jewels in the crown. We departed with heavy hearts and waved and blew air kisses at “our family” until they were tiny dots.

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Our taste buds were tickled by the exciting new flavours we'd been introduced to in Kilwa, which inspired us to stop along our route to Dar es Salaam to buy tasty treats, which we enjoyed with our morning coffee. Hakuna Matata to the diet.