Friday, December 21 – Sunset Bungalows, North Zanzibar

We join the flock of wazungu tromping to the trough. Mooo. Stupid white people. We must look like fools. Sign your name. Order your eggs by number. 1=fried, 2=boiled, 3=scrambled, 4=omelet. Three pieces of fruit. 2 pieces of toast. Everyone’s serving looks the same. Africafe instant coffee. A BIT of a let down after all the fresh local food in Stone Town. We are glad we bought our own fruit along the way. A white couple at the next table ask where we got the mango and papaya and are outwardly disappointed to learn that it was no where near here. We stroll south down the beach. More hotels. More wazungu. African employees. We are used to being approach by ‘solicitors’ by now. ‘You want spice tour? Massage? Snorkel cruise? Buy my crafts?’. Two Masaai say ‘Jambo’. I smile but say nothing. Brian confidently responds, ‘Habari!’ to which they respond, ‘Nzuri’, followed by “Mombo”/ “Poa”. I’m so proud of Brian. He has done a much better job of internalizing the Swahili niceties. I just keep saying, ‘Jambo’ or nothing at all and then get embarrassed. The Masaai boys are young and classic. Melodic jewelry around their necks, layers of beads at wrist and ankle, polished wooden walking sticks, finely braided long hair pulled back off slender dark faces. They each have long daggers stuck in their belts. Tall and fine boned. I am curious. Fascinated. The cover of National Geographic standing in front of me saying hello. I want to ask my questions. We stroll together, the four of us. One of them speaks broken but clear English if I concentrate. He asks us questions about our cities. Our climate. Our occupations. Our travel experience so far. I am glad he is so curious about us. I take a chance and am immediately reinforced. My carefully phrased questions are answered one by one. They come from outside Arusha. Attended school as only as children. Their father raises cattle. They don’t like fish and are surprised when they learn it is a favorite for me. What kind of fish do you have? Brian explains about salmon and trout. Tuna but not the same species. Their father is not happy they are here. They have each been given cattle. Why don’t you want to stay home? Their father cannot understand their desire to see new things. They are both here because they want to be. Their employer is good to them. They get fair wages and a place to sleep. They are both night watchmen at a resort down the line. They like the wazungu here and the Tanzanians who also work here but think the Zanzibari people are ‘lazy’. Don’t know how to work. They introduce themselves as Samuel and Paulo. Obviously not their given names but ones adopted more recently. I am unable to determine their real names. Samuel asks coyly about our social ‘rules’, “Are there black people where we live?’ To Brian, “If you were not married would it be OK with you to marry someone black?” I get the impression he is trying to glean what his chances would be of finding a white wife. I don’t ask. He smiles and nods happily when we both agree that it doesn’t matter to us. “It’s what’s inside a person that is most important”, Brian explains. We caution that not everyone in the US feels this way. Samuel suggests we walk back. Along the way he starts singing. He teaches me the song. He and I sing together. He is obviously pleased. “You are Masaai!”, he jokes. I am obviously pleased at well. High five. Clasped hands. I am so glad to have met him. He starts speaking in a falsetto voice. I ask him why. ‘Low voice scares wazungu’. He acts out running away, cringing. Then laughs. He says people respond better to the high voice. He likes to talk to people. He is very curious. I’ve just lived the dream. Moving to better understanding of another. Not feeling so self-conscious or embarrassed. We agree to meet again tomorrow. “Asanti Sana”. We are both visibly happy.
A relaxing afternoon. Pictures downloads in our cool rooms. Napping. Processing. Eventually, Brian and I walk to a tiny café we spotted on the drive in. No wazungu. Only Africans. Real food. We are welcomed. Fish curry. Fresh baked beans. Rice. Orange Fanta from a bottle opaque with refill lines. The air is hot. Inside the open-face plastered shelter is even hotter. No breeze. We chat up the ‘server’ (a term I use loosely here because I didn’t’ realize he actually worked here for most of our conversation). He is from Moshi on the mainland. His is not happy he is here. He came here because he needed the work. A different perspective shared openly. He doesn’t appear to resent the white people here though he works in a café that caters mostly to the local workers. I get the feeling our presence here is unusual. I’m so appreciative that we are so accepted. Welcomed. These are such good people.
Bill and Will find us after a day on the ocean diving. Will orders fish and chips. It turns out to be Barracuda served whole. He eats heartily. I can hardly believe this is the same conservative eater I left home with.
Children in grubby clothes walk by, singing. They are smiling and laughing. It is a holiday. Still Idi. No school. The celebration will last 2 more days. Trucks go by one by one piled with sand. Pineapple. Tourists. The bumpy dirt road is very busy.
We close the day with a rousing game of beach volleyball, the net placed precariously close to the diner’s at the Bikini Restaurant. We are soon joined by a Caucasian family from Zimbabwe who turn out to be as brilliant at beach volleyball as we are. We cheer when a volley lasts more than two exchanges. We all end up in the ocean (about 50 meters away) for a late night dip after having worked up quite a sweat. Laughing and soaked, we retire to our cool Bungalows.