My Mercury Mecca

So, after a torturous 3 day journey from Malindi via Mombasa and Dar Es Salam (Tanzania) we finally set foot on the hallowed ground that is Zanzibar - birthplace of Farrokh Bulsara otherwise known as the late, and very very great, Freddie Mercury. Now, don’t get me wrong – I am not obsessed with the guy, it’s just that he was a very good friend to me throughout my teenage years and someone I will never forget. I’ve never really seen the point of pilgrimages, but you can’t knock something until you’ve tried it so, in the name of religious empathy, I decided to give it a try. It would be just like being a Muslim – except without the prayer cap. Er, and the abstinence I suppose. And I suppose there was less probability of getting crushed too.

The final leg of the journey was a 4 hour ferry crossing from the main land. As we were "foreigners", we were expected to pay $20 - about twice the going rate for the locals which pissed us right off before we even got on the boat. Having to deal with loud vomiting, squawking chickens and fat Muslim women trying to slowly nudge you off your seat for the whole of the trip was probably slightly more annoying still, yet the thought of being merely hours away from completing my own personal once in a lifetime pilgrimage stopped me from getting too uptight about it all. Soz on the other hand, was ready to start throwing burkas over board before we were half way there.

Once we had checked in to a very basic but friendly guest house (The Princess Salme if anyone’s interested), we made a b-line for "Mercury’s", the bar on the beachfront dedicated to my hero and apparently full of memorabilia and trivia about the man himself. Well, in typical African style, the reality was nothing like the promise and other than a couple of black and white posters and a few faded and blistering photos there really wasn't much to differentiate the place from anywhere else on the seafront. Quietly disappointed, yet forever my upbeat positive self, I asked the barman what exactly they thought they were playing at. It turns out that they only called the place Mercury's after lots of teary looking Europeans suddenly started turning up on the boat from the mainland sometime in the early nineties asking directions to where some bloke called Freddie Mercury was born. Not many people on Zanzibar had ever heard of this Freddie bwahna but not wanting to miss out on a valuable opportunity to attract custom, the enterprising proprietors of the bar promptly renamed the place. The barman also confessed that he really didn't rate the music that much and much preferred traditional Swahili but failing that he's generally happy with a bit of hip hop. Tourists were always giving him Queen CDs which although he has always politely accepted he never bothered playing. After a cold beer, I got to the point and asked directions to Freddie Mercury's home. He bluffed an answer which turned out to be completely wrong and we left in search of Mecca.

It wasn't long before we happened across a shop selling all the usual East African tat that every other tourist shop in East Africa sells, and of course the wife insisted on investigating further - just in case there was something inside that she hadn't seen in the 50 plus other African tat shops we've already shuffled around over the past few weeks. As I loitered outside making small talk with the security guards, I noticed that the building was called Mercury House - surely not another cynical attempt to cash in on the sacred memory of dear Farad! Actually, it turned out that that Sozzle had accidentally found the building after all, so, on this occasion, I was happy to go in and help with a bit of browsing. The sleepy looking staff in the place shrugged enigmatically when I asked if it really was the birthplace of Freddie Mercury, although there was hardly a reference to the man inside the place and not a single patent leather hat with a chain across the front to be seen.

It wasn't until after I had made Sozzle take a photo of me having a pee in a toilet in the house, that it dawned on me that the building was way too modern to have been Freddie's home and that we were probably just at the same address.

A hundred yards up the street we came across a photography shop full of black and white prints of visiting dignitaries and ex presidents which looked like something dating back to the 1950s. Inside was a wiry middle aged, Indian looking man with a big moustache (slightly Freddiesque to be fair) who lent over the counter chain smoking while he nonchalantly surveyed the street outside through narrowed eyes. I recognised the place from a documentary made on Freddie's life so went inside feeling quite excited. After 30 seconds or so of looking at interesting (but not Freddie-related) black and white prints I asked the chain smoker why I recognised his shop from the documentary and he explained that the film makers had interviewed him about the Bulsara family a few years ago as his father had taken the very first photograph of Freddie as a baby when he was only 6 months old. Again, he really didn't see what the big deal was about the man - after all, he had never returned to Zanzibar since being sent to school in India as a seven year old. Two or three passport sized prints of the photo were under the glass of the ash covered counter in front of me and he explained that a larger print was kicking around somewhere but he had put it away due to the amount of sad white tourists that would come into his shop just to look at it. What is it they say about when opportunity knocks?!

How very odd, I agreed, still it takes all sorts I suppose. Clearing my throat, I took a deep breath and asked if I could perhaps buy one off his photos myself. Eventually I left with a print of a photograph that his father had taken of the street from outside the shop some time in the 1950's, possibly around the time of Freddie Mercury's birth. In the photograph the original building still stands, the house where Freddie was born and lived - modest and understated, just like my hero. It's the one with the black car outside it...

Did I feel complete now that my pilgrimage was over? Did I consider myself a more worthy fan? Would I endure 72 hours of public transport and crap hotels for something I believed in ever again? Probably not. Can’t see myself converting to Islam either.