Shopping for Spices in Stonetown

It’s just sweltering hot. I may have grown up in Houston, the world’s best and most miserable sauna, but at least there they have air conditioning. Also, for the last 15 years I’ve lived in: Chicago, San Francisco, and at 2,000 meters in Kenya. I don’t know hot anymore. It’s been years since I’ve smelled myself, and hopefully will be years before I do again.

Brady suggested that we go in search of spices to buy in bulk. We had contemplated the spice tour, which is standard on most people’s Zanzibar itineraries, but decided against it when we were told we wouldn’t be able to buy bulk spices. I personally get a little lost with a handful of whole cardamoms or a pod of vanilla beans, but it sounded like I would get a culinary education, so we set off for the market.

Man, trying to buy spices in bulk is like trying to buy illegal drugs. The first few people we talked to just shook their heads mysteriously and told us it wasn’t possible. A few spice vendors began referring us to one particular guy, who they had to track down. Our “dealer” finally showed up and led us to an unmarked, unassuming closet squeezed between some stalls of fruit.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“What do you have?” we said.

He unlocked the thin, creaky wooden door to reveal a dark, dusty room full of large gunny sacks. The sweet scent of cloves, cardamom and a potpourri of other spices wafted out, along with a charming musty smell that would become all too familiar on this island pounded constantly by monsoon rains.

“Karibu, karibu,” he said, welcoming us inside the closet that didn’t appear to have room for us to stand in. “I have cinnamon. You want cinnamon? I have cloves. You want cloves? Cardamoms, good price for you cardamoms. Ginger, good price for you.”

An hour later, after explaining repeatedly that we don’t actually want a whole kilo of cinnamon, maybe just a quarter kilo, and being told repeatedly that “bulk” meant we had to buy at least half a kilo, or enough to make French toast for five generations of offspring, we walked off with a respectable stash of spices, all for less than $30. Our booty included three packets of saffron the size of my palm for about $5, not exactly shabby; a handful of whole nutmeg, although neither of us know how to get the spice from the nutmeg; whole green cardamoms; way too many black peppercorns; cloves; cinnamon; whole mustard seeds; white peppercorns; a bag of curry leaves and a bundle of vanilla pods.

So, um, if you come over to my house anytime in the next 75 years, I’ll make you pilau.

Urojo! As we were walking back from the market with our spices we passed a small crowd of people sitting inside a shop eating something out of bowls. Neither of us really noticed until Brady said, “Hey, do you smell that?”

I did, and it was beautiful. We backtracked until we found a couple of old mamas deep frying balls of unidentified starch-like substances.

“What is it?” I asked in Swahili.

“Five hundred shillings,” the mama said.

“No, I’m asking what it is,” I said.

“You tell her how much you want, for one hundred, two hundred, three hundred shillings, and she’ll give you,” one of the customers said.

“It has potatoes?” I suggested, trying to get an actual answer.

“Yes,” the mama said.

“And what are these balls?”

“How much do you want?” the mama demanded.

So much for improving communication by knowing the local language. “I’d like three hundred.”

Whatever it was, was delicious. It had potatoes, bajias made of chickpeas and fried cassava chips in a cold soup made of coconut, lemon juice and chili sauce. It was so good that we bought another bowl, and agreed to come back later.

And after a lot of asking around, I finally found my answer: It’s called urojo.

(Photos by Brady Zieman)