Footloose writer Erick Wamanji takes the last expedition in Bagamoyo. He visits the Catholic museum. He also sees a baobab that is said to house a devil!
At Kaole Restaurant, indigo bougainvillea blooms and vines knit through trees to form a thick lush hedge. The black gate opens to let us in then swings to close. Unlike back home, there are no metal detectors here.
My bowels are under grips of hunger; my throat is almost cracking for thirst. It is at this makuti-thatched facility, with balmy shed and piped R&B, that I grab grilled fish and roast potatoes – to save the situation that is getting out of control.
I quickly gulp the concoction of tonic soda and lemon before hitting the road to the legendary ruins.
A surreal wind caresses us at the Kaole Ruins, located five kilometers from Bagamoyo Town. It’s calm but hush-hush this afternoon though two chaps perch at a shed next to their battered motorbikes and school children at the boulders of what was once the seed of Islam, listen keenly to a lecture.
“Now this is where the first mosque was built. It was part of the Shiranzi civilization,” Ibrahim, the guide, says as Oscar scouts for parking.
The archeological magnet sits next to what was the first port though mangrove trees adamantly skirt it as if to safeguard it from vandals. During its heyday, this port was a jewel relished by travellers and traders. Anchor here was heavily favored by the monsoon winds and calm seawaters, which buoyed trade and settlement.
There are no curators here; an officer is at hand to issue entry tickets nonetheless. The main attraction is the remains of the first mosque in mainland East Africa. It was built in thirteenth century, Ibrahim says. The two dome-shaped mosques were, made of coral reefs.
The mosque was designed to face mecca. There were separate sections for men and women. And some stairs, still intact, allowed the muhadhini to go up to a slab to sound the prayer call. This crumble is an impressive historical preservation that offers quick insights of the process of Islamization of Africa and the opening of the East to the Arabian and Asian world.
A few pillars still jut sharply heavenwards as if seeking divine interventions over the fall of the mosque.
Mecca-facing tombs too dot this area. Some big, some small, but each is enclosed with coral structures. Umbrella trees in their evergreen grace offer shed and sooth to the graveyard.
People of different calibers were laid here. The bigger and well-decorated grave belongs to the chief priest. There is also the grave of Sharrifa. This is the girl that is said to have been pure and a direct descendant of the prophet Mohammed. She is sometimes referred to as an angel.
Grave of Lovers
The most striking grave here is that of a couple called Grave of Lovers. The couple was buried together. Legend has it that the husband was drowning. Worried for his wife, he pulled her so that they could die together. Fishermen discovered their floating bodies the following morning and interred them here. This passion of love, of Romeo-Juliet scale, has remained a mindboggling tale on this tiny village.
Kaole was formerly known as Pumbuji. It was an idly fishing village till the Persia- Arabs discovered it. Then the muezzin would sound his thing. Villagers would say, “twende tu kaole,” (lets go see). That is how the area became Kaole, Ibrahim narrates.
Kaole fell. It was swallowed by mangrove forest for centuries. It was not until 1958 that one Nevile Chittick excavated the ruins from the swamp to discover the treasure trove. Today, it is in the custody of the Tanzania authorities.
“The problem is that our government has not sufficiently marketed this place,” Ibrahim laments. “If it did, the whole of Kaole would be teeming with tourists.”
There is a well by the side of the mosque with glass-clear waters. Made centuries ago, the well, resilient enough, still shines with water.
“This is a very special well,” says Ibrahim. “When the first Muslim came here, he dug 12 wells but all were salty. Then the angel guided them to dig this. It had fresh water, this is because the angel didn’t want people to suffer of thirst.”
This well never dries, so they say. It also replenishes itself to its original level no matter the use.
“This well has powers,” Ibrahim continues. “If you draw its waters you will be healed of your tribulations. But you must believe.”
He challenges us to draw and wash our hands with it for luck would be our way. No one seemed ready for the luck charm. We hurry off. Still we learn that this site is a beloved of many leaders from local and afar. Here, they seek luck in their political pursuits.
Satan’s footprints
“Come I will show you Satan’s footprints” Ibrahim says, his eyes betraying no emotions. “Huh! Satan’s footprints?” we wonder in unison. Still, we follow a path that leads to the mammoth baobab tree.
“But you must believe so that you can see the footprints,” he says. “You know we always say each devil has its own baobab. This one too.”
The giant tree is intimidating because of its sheer size. Its back is rough like a crocodile’s skin. It has shed off its leaves looking like a featherless chicken. A monitor lizard stares at us then glides up to hide. “Is that the Satan?” I wonder.
Ibrahim points out to something on the back, it’s a think imprint-like, well close to a footprint but my little science tells me that something punctured the bark and created a scar that after sometime it looks like an elephant imprint on mud, and some look like a leopards paws. They are two, and to Ibrahim, the devil was running away.
Tales of Kaole are horrific, easily an extract passage from the Arabian Nights.
There is evidence that Kenyans are frequenters of this baobab. Vistors have scratched their names here: “Kanu, Wangare, Ngina, Nairobi…” name it.
“Do I also script my name so that it can go on record I was here,” I wonder. Instead, a snap, go round the trunk and well, bid Kaole goodbye.
We briefly pass by the crocodile farm then past the Frelimo Vocation School. It is here, today a primary school, that the Frelimo fighters strategised to liberate their country.
Huge mango trees grace the boulevard to the Catholic Museum. It’s about one kilometer from the town center. The museum is at the heart of a Catholic complex. It is here too where the first church in mainland East Africa is anchored.
It’s a lonesome place. Still, there is a curator, a young lad of medium built all to himself, guarding the treasurable history.
The museum is a collection of ancient artifacts and antiques mostly on slavery and early history of Bagamoyo. Its walls are stashed with pictures, drawings and literature that preserve the memory of Bagamoyo. There is a rusty chain, one of the many, which bonded the slaves; there are spears, bows, arrows, stools, an old Avery weighing scale, the Cockerel of France, padlocks…
The Holy Ghost Fathers who founded this first church played a critical role in buying and freeing slaves from Arab merchants. “The freed slaves converted to Christianity and were settled in the nearby Freedom Village,” Ibrahim explains.
We have to see the first church. Today called the Livingstone Tower, a tall whitewashed structure that looks like a watchtower. Two Marian shrines grace the inside. The wooden carvings are peeling off though. Entry is prohibited and we make do with a peep. It is at this chapel that remains of David Livingstone laid inter-state awaiting shipment to England. That night, freed slaves came to keep a nightly vigil in honour of the man who fought for their liberation.
ewamanji@yahoo.co.uk