In the final part of his travelogue MITTERAND OKORIE thinks of building a holiday pad in Tanzania, only to hear surprising arguments for and against socialism.
He lodges in Maru-Maru Hotel, which once had a famous guest, then sails on Kilimajaro III to cast his last sweeping gaze at the Indian Ocean.
Afriend’s friend, and his uncle
Over the next few days, I meet, first Jo, and then Quintus.
The first is a childhood friend of my friend Albert – with whom I went to school in Wales five years ago, while the later is his uncle.
I request Jo to take me to a normal bar where ordinary citizens have their fun, because everywhere I have been to before now —Hilton, Capetown Fish Market – are all filled with white tourists.
I feel the need to see how the locals spend their time, how they unwind, if they are as noisy as Nigerians, how they party, and whether their girls are as audacious on the dance floor as ours.
“You are my guest. You let me take you to where I want to take you first, and then we can discuss the rest later”, is Jo’s reply.
His girlfriend looks at me in an I-think-he’s-right manner, and I can say nothing else. Age-old African hospitality at play.
Dream of a holiday pad
As we eat, I tell Jo that I have got around the last few days and not only have I fallen in love with Tanzania but I am now thinking of buying a piece of land where I could build a holiday pad in the future.
“I learn also that doing so is only possible if I find a local who can co-own with me, and must have at least 50 per cent stake,” I add.
“Maybe you should marry a Tanzanian girl”, his girlfriend cheekily interjects, and then smiles.
“This is my problem with this country. Socialism is killing us. Seriously, I keep telling them down here, they don’t know how money works.
“This year, I bought a piece of land in Uganda and another one in Rwanda. None of this co-owning stuff exists over there.
“But I tell you, even for us locals, you never truly own a piece of land here, because the government can re-appropriate it after a certain period of time.”
“That’s ridiculous isn’t it?” Jo continues. “But the people love it, and that’s what I do not understand.
“Same way they were happy that our president built for them a giant stadium to watch football when that money could have been injected into our comatose healthcare sector.”
His girlfriend argues that his many years of living in America make him incapable of understanding why socialism works best for Tanzanians.
Benefits of socialism
I meet Quintus at the Slipway Restaurant, which, by far, is the best place in Tanzania to watch the sun go down; he has a totally different view.
He was an auditor at the Tanzanian Education Ministry, and had returned from London to Dar about eight years ago.
We speak about our times in London, even though they are of different generations. We agree that resettling back home after many years of studying or staying in the West is a particularly arduous challenge.
I put to him the question of socialism, land rights, and its inhibitions on economic development.
“No…no…no. I do not see it that way,” he fires off.
“First, you need to understand that for many years now, our country has been by far the biggest custodian of refugees in East Africa given the strife in the countries bordering us.”
Quintus thinks neoliberalism is a contributory factor in those wars, though never comfortably explains why.
“Here, people feel without lands they have nothing. They have no problem if they aren’t rich, but having a land gives them a sense of wealth, of owning something of worth, and that alone is sufficient for many.
“If we liberalise things the way you suggest, yes, more investors would come in, the lands would be hurriedly bought off – with countless structures erected on all corners, but… people would begin to feel dispossessed.
“And before you know it, the class barrier widens, and so will crime and social strife.”
He sighs deeply and adds: “I think things are fine the way they are.”
Quintus drives us to a night club later on, at about 11pm. The place isn’t looking as lively or bubbly as I would expect; and my dismay is clearly written on my face.
“Actually, in Tanzania, the clubs are filled only at the end of the month, when salaries must have been paid,” he tells me.
“Hmmm… I see. Obviously I have no right to think everywhere was Abuja where people party every day.”
“You have oil in your country, why not?”
“Yes… not just oil though”, I cut in, “there’s just too much unearned money to throw around”, I reply as we both laugh.
This is Zanzibar, not Tanzania
Three days before my holiday is set to end, I travel to Zanzibar. It would have been unforgivable to be in Tanzania without seeing Zanzibar. So on March 14, I set forth at dawn to the harbour.
As we make our way into the ferry, I am struck by the massive number of white people marching in; British holiday makers, Americans, Serbs, Croats, Turks, and others whose passports I can’t catch a glimpse of.
It is reminiscent of what I witnessed on the flight to Dar; I could count only about 10 black people among about 200 passengers. White folks obviously have a serious liking for this place.
I feel a little jealous. How come they don’t like my own country just as much? Whites come to Nigeria to make money, not spend. But I can’t blame them too much. I understand exactly why.
The ferry docks at the Zanzibar port, and I fear I may not be allowed into the city.
“Where is your yellow card?” The aged woman, dressed in mufti asks.
I can see everyone pulling up their yellow card; how then is it that only I did not know I am entering a new territory? All my life I had thought Zanzibar was part of Tanzanian territory.
“I left it in Dar es Salaam, Ma. I showed it to the airport authorities when I landed there, and wasn’t aware I’d be required to bring it here with me.”
She takes a look at my passport, sees my Tanzanian visa, and the stamp in on it. My heart races in a frenzied manner as I await what she’d say next. I had paid $80 for the trip and getting turned back would have been a personal tragedy.
“This is Zanzibar not Tanzania. You need to come with your yellow card next time.”
I thank her profusely and quickly make my way out of the port and into Zanzibar’s Stone Town.
In the footsteps of Bill Clinton
I get into the Maru-Maru Hotel, a small but supremely clean lodge. Stepping in, I see a picture of Bill Clinton, proudly displayed on the stairwell. It was taken when he lodged here while attending a UNESCO event in 2012.
At the top of the building is a very fancy bar which features a gorgeous view of Zanzibar, though one needs to have at least a 20x optical zoom camera to see beyond the thatched roofs and rickety buildings in the immediate surroundings.
Zanzibar is a contradiction in many ways. It is a place of extravagant beauty, but the locals barely have the means to enjoy the fullness of it.
And so everywhere I look, I find it hard to reconcile the beauty and the squalor on the other side of it.
After the colourful evening at the promenade in front of the House of Wonders – adjacent to the shore of the Zanzibar coast, I know my time there has to be called short.
It has been a wonderful 24 hours of meeting new people, having good food, drinks, and tasting different varieties of grilled meat.
The next morning, the ferry, named Kilimajaro III, arrives at the dock.
As the vessel sails back to Dar es Salaam, I roam helplessly on its balcony, casting my last gaze at the beautiful Indian Ocean.
Deja vu in Abuja
On March 19, I arrive back at the Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport, Abuja. I make it past Immigration, take my luggage from the carousel and find my way to the exit.
“Oga, where are you coming from?” the NDLEA official asks, quite abrasively.
“Tanzania. Please, my taxi is outside waiting for me” I reply with a tone of impatience and dissatisfaction.
“Follow me” he orders.
“To where?”
“Upstairs.”
Deja vu. It is to the x-ray room again.
• Okorie lectures in peace and conflict resolution at Michael Okpara University of Agriculture, Umudike.
His book All That Was Bright and Ugly is expected to be published this year.
