The walk to the Zanzibar bound ferry was an interesting one indeed. As soon as we stepped on the scene, we were accosted by a crowd of touts, all wanting to show us where to go. We said “no thank you” over and over again, but we couldn’t shake them. We ended up at the “Aziza Ferry” boat counter because we couldn’t find the “Flying Horse” counter we were looking for. While paying, we had to take out our passports…

We were carefully guarding our bags and money since the touts were still surrounding us, and were particularly careful when taking out our passports. Beth gripped hers and mine in a white knuckled pinch, and quickly snatched them back when the woman behind the counter handed them back. When putting them back in her bag, the touts said, “No, no! Put them in your pocket!” We all looked at each other in shock, laughed, then Marjona said “You’re out of your damn minds.”

“No,” one insisted. “You will need them again to board the ferry. Carry them in your pocket.”

Beth looked this guy straight in the eye, with a raised eyebrow and a cutting smile. “If we need them again,” she snarled, “then we’ll get them out again.”

The woman behind the counter told us to follow one of the guys. We were skeptical, and asked her if he worked for Aziza. She said that yes, this “gentleman” worked for Aziza. We began walking along a rocky, dirt path along the water. We walked for a good 10 minutes, all the while collecting more touts, until we reached what we thought was the loading dock. Outside of a tall, metal gate stood 3 men guarding the entrance. They started demanding a $5 fee for taxes.

We had read about this, but remembered that it should be included in the ticket fee and refused to pay. The men got very upset, one even pointing a finger in my face saying I must pay. He recoiled, however, when I put my hand up, stepped back and gave him a death stare.

“Fine,” I said, “I’ll just go ask the woman at the ticket counter.”

I threw down my bag, and began walking back. There was a flurry of activity behind me, when someone tapped me on the shoulder and said “he was just trying to steal, you can go now.” I turned around, and Marjona and Beth were looking around, wondering where all the men had gone. All had vanished into thin air, including the “gentleman” who supposedly worked for Aziza, when I had started to walk back.

We continued to walk somewhat aimlessly, searching for the Aziza. People kept pointing us in the same direction, so we kept trucking along. We walked for another 10 or 15 minutes and finally came upon the Aziza, a huge cargo ship being loaded with everything from mattresses and cement mixers to bags of rice and flat bed trucks.

We stood there, staring, with sweat dripping from every square inch of skin, wondering where exactly we were going to sit. A few other weary travelers ambled past us, so we figured we at least were in the right place and proceeded to climb the rickety ramp to the ship. Once on board, people began pointing us in the right direction again. “This way, this way,” people would say as we passed. Up a flight of stairs, down a different flight, around a corner and up another set. We wound around the corridors and finally ended up in the tourist section… a posh, spacious room with comfy couches and tables in between. We collapsed on the couches, and I whipped out my newly functional camera for a recap. Beth blasted through the events, still panting and dripping from our walk, and I walked around the find Marjona, unable to comment or look at the camera, merely holding up her hand in a “don’t you dare put that in my face” manner, saying only, “I need water.”