Bagamoyo is about 70 kms (that's right, I'm all metric now) north of Dar es Salaam, right up along the ocean. Once, long ago, it was actually the capital of German East Africa. Almost all European missionaries began and ended their journeys there (sometimes for good - the body of Dr. David Livingstone, of "I presume" fame, rested in Bagamoyo before his final trip back to Westminster Abbey). It was also a huge center of the East African slave trade, where newly captured slaves were held before their transport to Zanzibar and further places. The whole city reached its peak around the 1890s - whereupon the Germans made the crucial decision to relocate their capital to a little harbor called Dar es Salaam. It was all downhill from there for Bagamoyo, I'm afraid. Nowadays, it's an example of my favorite type of city: once grand and important, now delapidated and mostly abandoned, with grand buildings in thorough states of disrepair and little hints everywhere of its former glory.
Fellow travelers Nina and Magdalina and I took a series of daladalas up the coast from Dar, navigating like pros. The one minor snag was that the final daladala terminal turned out to be quite a bit inland of historic Bagamoyo - we didn't quite know which way to walk, and the taxi drivers descended like jackals. Luckily Nina and Magdalina deal with these guys in the same way I do: walk confidently in one direction, even if you have no idea where you're going, until the touts/drivers finally give up and you can consult your guidebook in peace.
Having finally determined which way was east ("I see ocean over there!"), we popped out onto a long, neatly bricked pathway running right along the coast and through the center of town. Immediately to our right were the old German BOMA, a fancy-pants administrative building left roofless since El Nino, and the simply-named Fort. Both had that solid, this-building-will-be-here-for-generations look common among old European structures in this country. If there was any residual hope among the Bagamoyans that these Westerners might just go home after a few years, I think the Fort may have persuaded them otherwise.
We ambled north along the pathway, politely refusing a constant stream of offers ("Baisikeli [Bicycles]! Ice creami! Wood carvings!", etc.). The main buildings in town, near the ocean-side fish market, all have this great rundown appeal - very shabby chic, if you will. The outer walls are chipped and crumbling and clearly haven't been patched up in years, but the doors - oh, I took a lot of pictures of the doors. They're done in the Zanzibar, Omani-influenced style: really thick hardwood, with beautiful carvings bisecting the door and running around the edges. Apparently each tiny carving design has its own symbolism: a chain for protection, a lotus flower for prosperity, a wave to indicate a fisherman's home. Of course, no one has done any conservation for the doors any more than the rest of the town, but luckily they're so solidly made that they're survived fairly well.
After appreciating the hilariously low tide characteristic of midday Bagamoyo, we set out on unexpectedly long hunt for lunch, finally ending up with plates of rice, beans and veggies in a oceanfront field of picnicking locals. We all agreed that food tasted much better when you'd had to wander around seeking it for a few hours. Sour grapes, perhaps, but those beans were totally awesome.
A quick ice cream cone apiece, then off to St. Joseph's mission, a large chunk of land just off the coast. The Holy Ghost Fathers, among the first Christian missionaries to plant themselves in East Africa, established what became a rather sprawling complex over the years: church, bell tower, farms, living quarters, school, and a tiny but surprisingly good museum, with more information about Bagamoyo than seems even to be available on the internet. (I know, hard to believe.) We spent a good hour in the three-room museum, checking out items from the whole history of the town: pre-European tribal masks, Omani ash trays, slave chains, deeds of freedom for slaves ransomed by the priests, WWI-era German newspapers, 1920s handrawn British maps. Ran the whole gamut, really. We emerged, pleased and vaguely self-satisfied with our new knowledge. (Once a med student, always a med student.)
With the light waning, we strolled back towards the bus station, stopping to visit the huge fish market on the way out. Somehow during our walk back, our stabs at asking for directions in Swahili acquired us a series of friendly escorts: an older man walked us to the fish market, a younger man took us to a place to buy water, a middle-aged woman walked with us to the daladalas. Capped the day off nicely, really, and sort of gels with what I've generally found in Tanzania - a genunine attempt at Swahili, even a bad one, earns you a lot of good will. It's encouraging.
A bumpy trip home in the gathering darkness, notable only towards the end when our daladala went zooming right through a police checkpoint. Good times. So the first day trip was a success, I think; planning a second one this weekend to the Pugu Hills, where I shall seek the elusive giant elephant shrew.
EDIT: Almost forgot: "Bagamoyo" means "Lay down your heart" in Swahili, although it's not quite settled how it got that name. Some sources say that it was because Bagamoyo was the big city, fun times, lay down your cares and worries and all that. Other, more plentiful sources say that it was named during the slave trade: if they captured you and you found yourself taken to Bagamoyo, give up hope. Sort of fits nicely with with my aforementioned theory of blogging, I thought.
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